


Invincible

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Post Lethal White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: Written in 2019, so any resemblances to Troubled Blood are pure coincidence. Post Lethal White, Strike and Robin's lives are changing a lot. As they begin to realise of their feelings for one another, their feelings and the storms raining on their personal lives begin to affect their work dynamic negatively. In the middle of all that, they'll try to help an old friend of Leda's and the squatter community when they're affected by serious criminal gangs of organ dealers.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 23
Kudos: 16





	1. He can bugger off

**Chapter 1:**

The cheering and the loudness of the party could be heard from outside, despite the intense rainfall happening just outside the doors. The waiters were excited; this would probably provide a lot of money for just one night. Even the other customers seemed to be lured by their companions into a major state of celebration and happiness, and asked for more drinks, that they drank more often. The music was also loud, heard over the intense and frequent guffaws of laughter that the customers made, and the dancing never stopped. It had come to a point in which the waiters didn't care some of their customers were dancing on top of the bar, or on top of the tables, because the money was worth it, as it was so close to Christmas and it felt like an early present.

“Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen her so crazy and happy,” Doctor Nick Herbert commented with a smirk, looking towards his best friend for the past twenty-two years, Detective Cormoran Strike.

“Me neither,” Strike grinned, his glass clinging with his friend's.

Both men sat on the corner of a padding bench around a small round table, both with drinks in their hands and the slight flush that came after too much drinking.

“Ilsa! Where're you? Ilsa!” a young, strawberry-blonde haired woman, shouted from her spot as she danced on top of the bar. She was visibly drunk, her cheeks red. “There ye're! Come up!” she shouted over the noise, helping a bespectacled blonde woman come stand next to her and putting an arm over her shoulders, lifting a bottle of wine in the air with her free hand. “You guys! Let's hurrah for this woman! She's a super friend, and I love her so much! I love you Ilsa,” Robin drunkenly kissed her friend's cheek, and the lawyer giggled drunkenly. While everyone else, about twenty people, cheered on. “This incredible woman's the best lawyer in London! Yeah!” more cheering and a round of applause that had Ilsa blushing hard. Strike and Nick, amused, joined in the cheering. “She's taken care of my whole divorrrce fur free! And thanks to 'er, now the tosser of meh ex-hubby can BUGGER THE FUCK OFF! Hurrah! Raise the music volume! LOUDER! AND I WANT 'NOTHER 'OUND, 'M PAYIN'!!!”

There was whistling and cheering and Ilsa was publicly praised. Robin laughed raising her arms up in the air and danced away.

“It's past four in the morning,” Nick commented towards Strike. Both were veterans with alcohol and didn't lose control so easily anymore. “Perhaps you should take her home. She's going to have a huge hangover in the morning.”

“Maybe you're right,” Strike admitted, his eyes crinkled as he observed Robin, “she just looks so happy...”

He allowed a twenty minute prorogue, and then he rose in all his size, a big bulk even now that he had lost a significant amount of weight and was the fittest he had been in many years. He walked between the multitude, that opened at his big presence, towards Robin. He was so tall even with Robin being on top of the bar, he reached her hips. They had been dancing before and now as he looked up at her, drunk and free, he thought he had never seen anything more sexy.

“Come on, Robin, let's take you home!” Strike called her. She looked down and grinned, burying a hand in his hair in a way that gave him the best kind of chills.

“Corm'an!” she shouted, louder than it was necessary. “Corm-o-ran come up! Let's dance 'gain!”

“I'd love to Robin, but it's very late. Let's continue the party at home, okay? Too loud here!”

“'M fine!” Robin nodded. “HEY GUYS! I'M LEAVING!” there was a general boo. Robin had gained her public through being incredibly kind and funny beyond belief all night long. Strike didn't know most of the party -either they had come as someone else's company, or had already been in the pub, and had joined in the party- so he didn't feel too sad for them. “My friend Co-r-mo-ran,” she tried to pronounce properly, “is takin' me home! He's the best Detective in London my friends! Look how cute!” and without warning she squatted to grab Strike's face pulling out his lips as if she was going to kiss him. “Such a PUPPEH! Help me Cormoran, these heels are so big!”

Strike put his hands on her hips and pulled her down, not without a lot of people doing 'woooh!' in amazement, and Robin laughing the entire way. She slumped into Strike's arms, putting an arm over his shoulders. With her high heels, they were the same height.

“Thank yee, Co-r-mo-ran, yer a sweetie!” Robin slurred, kissing him soundly on the cheek. He blushed hard and felt his parts twitch, but he merely put an arm around her hips to stabilize her and waved their friends goodbye before helping her walk out of the pub, grabbing his umbrella with his free hand and using it to protect them both. The fresh air felt great to both of them, and Strike saw her smile a little as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Yer my best friend, Co-r-mo-ran...” she confessed, making his heart skip a beat. Then she looked up, trying to focus his eyes into view. “Am I your best friend too?”

“Of course, Robin. Even better, you're my business partner. You're stuck with me.”

Robin grinned and leaned back against his shoulder. Between the awkward position, their drunkenness, and the fact that they were sharing one umbrella, they walked in zig-zag down the thin pavement towards the corner where Strike's BMW was parked.

He helped her inside the copilot seat, putting on her seatbelt before rushing towards the driver's seat. He threw the umbrella into the back-seat and put on his seatbelt, seeing that Robin had her eyes closed and her forehead pressed against the window glass. The incredibly expensive silver necklace that Strike had gifted her for her twenty-ninth birthday, from where a super tiny, round Tiffany diamond hung, inside a golden circle, had come from underneath her blouse, where it had been safely kept since he had gifted it to Robin on her actual birthday two days before. Now it was Friday night and it had been the chosen night to really celebrate her life.

“God...” Robin's eyes had half-opened and she was giving him a deep look. Embarrassed, he quickly looked up at her, realizing it looked like he had been staring at her cleavage. “You truly _are_ sexy, d'you know?” Strike's heart skipped a beat, and she caressed his cheek softly. “So butch... and your eyes... you've got beautiful eyes, y'know?”

“Not as pretty as yours,” Strike replied, not imagining she'd remember the next day anyway.

“Mine? They're cold. Yours are warm. Yours are like... like staring into a chocolate mug after a freezing winter day. Yours are comforting.”

“Yours remind me of the ocean,” he said. She smiled.

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I'm a beach boy, so...” he raised an eyebrow, and she giggled. “Never think less of yourself, Robin. Even less to make someone feel better about themselves.” He squeezed her thigh gently, and started driving towards Robin and her friend Charlie's flat in Earl's Court.

Robin had gone to live with a long-time good friend of Ilsa, who was a gay actor. He was still at the party, as they had been living together for over a year and were now close friends. Robin often joked Charlie seemed attracted to Strike, as the first time they had met Charlie had blushed hard and had been unable to speak in front of Strike, but now they had gotten used to each other, and they got quite along. Strike had breathed in relief once he was sure Charlie was a nice boy, because it was what Robin needed.

By the time they arrived, Robin had fallen asleep in the car. Since Strike had gotten so much thinner in the last year, and so much fitter, he decided to carry Robin inside. He found her keys in her purse, and knew Robin couldn't weight _that_ much, and besides, she had a lift, which certainly made things easier. When Strike had finally managed Robin onto her bed, he sighed in relief and sat down on the verge of the sofa. She had weighted more than he had expected, and his leg now hurt a little.

“Where do you even put it, uh?” Strike whispered in the darkness, removing Robin's high heels and massaging her feet a little. He took off her jacket, carefully, and since she was on top of the duvet on one side of her double bed, he put the other side of the duvet over her, and wrapped her up like a taco. He tentatively kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, Robin. Sleep well.” He said softly, abandoning the room.

In the kitchen he found a glass, that he filled with water, and something to help with the hangover, so he left them on Robin's bedside table, next to her keys. He then worked to find the spare keys he knew they kept in a drawer of the sitting room, because Robin had sometimes given them to him so he could watch over the fish that Charlie had had -it only lived six months- when she and Charlie had been out of the city at the same time. With those keys, he locket the door after himself and left home, as he felt uneasy leaving the door unlocked with Robin inside and alone, but also didn't want to leave her keyless, in case there was a fire and she needed to run out. He had previously registered the flat was empty, except for Robin, because he was a security maniac, as Robin fondly called him.

The following day, his head felt twice its size. He woke up groaning in the middle of his double bed of his flat in the attic floor of 15 Soho Square, to which he had moved eight months previously, along with his office, that now was in the storey below. His new attic was a very decent place, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a sitting-dining room, and he had even held a flat-warming party back in the day.

It was a product of two major events; one, a developer had bought half Denmark Street, including their building, and months afterwards had kicked them out to take the building down and build a luxurious apartment building instead. Two, after the arrest of Raphael Chiswell over a year before, their business had drastically catapulted forward and now they made five times what they had made back then. All their debts had been paid, Sam Barclay and Andy Hutchins had been permanently hired, along with their assistant, Maggie Tyler, and their office was bigger and prettier. Strike missed the music, but now he could afford having a music player in his office, playing soft rock or jazz at a low volume all the time.

A long shower did wonders to his hangover, and after getting dressed and having a full English Breakfast, he felt like a new person, and walked downstairs.

“Good morning!” he greeted Maggie cheerfully.

“Morning!” Maggie was a hard-working, compassionate woman in her early thirties. She was black, with glasses, and had previously worked as a personal assistant for two years for a businessman, a job she left because travelling so much, as she was to follow her boss around all the time, was shit for the balance of family life. Maggie and her husband Jordan were parents of Brandon, a little four-year-old who sometimes hung out in the office, making drawings on a corner of her mother's desk. “How's that hangover?” she asked with a knowing half-smile, offering him a mug of tea. She, along with the rest of their employees, had been at the party the night before with her husband, but they had left early because Brandon still didn't deal well with being away from his parents for long.

“Better. How's Brandy?” Strike asked. Even though he had traditionally been shit with children, he had, in the last year, drastically improved his relationship with his nephews, and as he felt more confident around children now, he was also 'buddies' with Brandon. Strike had once accidentally called the boy 'Brandy', because it sounded more accurate for a child so tiny, and he had laughed, finding it funny. Ever since, the nickname had stuck.

“He's fine, you know, driving the cat nuts, but he means well. You're the first to arrive. Think Robin will come?”

“In three years, no hangover has kept her away from work, so yes. She's too obsessed,” Strike shrugged, sipping from his tea, exactly the way he liked it. He hummed, liking the taste. “So what do we have today?”

Maggie gave Strike a summary of his morning tasks, and he went on to work. Sam and Andy arrived an hour later, as Strike prepared to go outside to investigate, and he was sure to tell Maggie to wish his partner a good day from him, whenever she came to work. No one rushed Robin, or kept track of her hours, since she often worked nights and weekends, and was such a workaholic that, during her brief romance with Nick's little brother months before, the man in question had begged Strike to convince her to go out for a night, so they could have actual dates and not just meet for lunch.

  
  


  
  



	2. A second mother

**Chapter 2:**

Spanner had asked Robin out on a date late in March, after she had been single for seven months. She had been unsure, but since Spanner was known for being a nice guy, being Nick's little brother and having been threatened by Ilsa with poisoning him if he hurt Robin in the slightest, she had agreed on a date. They had ended-up becoming a formal couple for a total of four months, and then she had broken things off, because even though she had fun with him and enjoyed his company immensely, considering him a good friend, she didn't quite 'feel sparks'. She felt her heart wasn't in the relationship, and didn't want to lose his time. He had understood and they remained friends, so he had been at the party the night before. Now she had been single for three months, and, as Charlie had gossiped to Strike, she had manifested a wish to remain single for a longer time, feeling that she needed it. This hadn't made Strike's chest roar any softer.

By now, after three years working together nearing four, Strike was sure that he didn't just like Robin. It had taken months to fully accept it, confessing it to himself, but he knew he loved Robin. He wasn't sure if her was completely and hopelessly in love, but he knew he was crazy about her. He had actually found his eyes glassy with tears when Robin had told him she was going on a date with Spanner, and for months, had picked-up on the way his heart hammered stronger when she was around, the way he couldn't keep his eyes of her and missed even her smell if she wasn't around, even when he had just seen her. He had caught himself bringing Robin into any sort of conversation with his friends more frequently than not, and when she had gotten a light case of pneumonia during a holiday trip skiing in Sweden with her family over the summer, he had found himself going exaggeratedly mad with worry. That, without mentioning he had actually had dreams with Robin, of which he'd rather not think much. Charlotte had disappeared from his mind as quickly as she had arrived, and now, mother of twins, didn't bother him much anymore. Robin's divorce had been completed before the summer, Strike hadn't dated anyone since Lorelei over a year before, and now _there was still time_. The events of the night before had only fuelled Strike's hopes that maybe Robin actually wanted him, despite the age difference, despite his bad habits... he had still done his best to improve himself, hoping to call her attention while improving the feel of his stump.

First, he hadn't forgotten Christmas or birthdays. On St. Valentine's, he had invited her out to a pub after working all day, simply to celebrate being single, and they had laughed so much and shared such a good time, he had realized he was fucked. Then he had started going to the gym every free moment he had, and as he had gotten thinner, he was wearing tighter shirts, that Lucy said marked his muscles. He heard Robin tell Charlie once that she liked men with beard better, which was weird, as Matthew was clean-shaved, and he had started letting his stubble work just a bit, and received a compliment by Robin a week later. He had learnt her favourite dishes, and a few times had invited her for dinner, cooking expertly for her, and he had started relearning guitar, an instrument he had had abandoned for the past ten years, after having learnt it with her family being so musical. He found himself trying to woo her harder than he had ever worked for a woman before. As a matter of fact, it was the very first time he had to work for a woman and he found the experience both addicting and excruciatingly painful.

So as he went back to the office for lunch time, he couldn't help buying Robin's favourite sandwich, since he was just passing by, and knew she'd be hungry, or so he told himself. And if on his way there he crossed Soho Square and happened to find some red flowers in the centre, and ripped a few for Robin, it was only 'cause he thought she'd like them, not because he hid any feelings. He was already rehearsing his excuse on the lift to the office. 'I saw these and thought of you' sounded too romantic. Better go for 'these smell great, don't they? Here, you can keep them'.

“Oh, thank you,” Robin grinned at him as she received them, sitting at her desk, hard at work. Strike's words died in his throat. How could a hungover woman be so stunning? She was hard at work, which he found sexy, her hair was just a little dishevelled, and her fingers were so long and pretty. The sun coming from her window made her eyes shine and her lips look redder and more tempting, and she looked so sweetly at him. “They're beautiful, Cormoran. I'll find a vase for them.”

And despite she had never been a flower girl, she was so touched with such an odd gesture coming from Strike, that she proudly exhibited the flowers on her desk for three days before they died.

On Wednesday, Strike was on his way back to the office late in the afternoon, as he had spent a great part of the day doing surveillance for a case about a business where money was disappearing, and their client, the company's director, had hired them to figure out where was his money. They were paying well and Strike was cheerful. He had arrived to the office that morning to hear Robin and Maggie cracking-up about something, and Robin had just resolved a small case all on her own, without a single bit of help, so he was feeling lucky.

When he felt his phone buzzing, he was just arriving to Soho Square. He took the device and saw that it was his uncle Ted calling him, just to improve his day a little further.

“Hi Ted,” Strike said pressing the phone against his ear.

“Corm, hi,” there was something in his uncle's voice that made him frown. It was hoarse and rigid. “Can we talk?”

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“Corm... I'm at the hospital.”

“What? Why?” Strike's frown turned into a scowl and he sat on a bench by the statue of Charles II.

“I don't know how to...” Ted's voice shook and Strike felt chills. “Corm,” his voice sounded almost broken now, “your aunt has passed away.”

Strike's eyes widened and he felt his heart physically shrink. He was suddenly out of breath, and he felt his lips moving as he attempted a word, but no sound came out.

“Aunt Joan?” Strike asked at last. “No she hasn't. I was just speaking with her last night about going over for Christmas...”

“There was a big storm last night,” Ted explained, and he heard his uncle take a deep breath before continuing. “It provoked some heavy floods, like it usually happens. Early this morning, your aunt was going to Truro to run some errands, and as she drove in the narrow roads, she was surprised by an avalanche of water. It was strong enough to throw her car away,” his voice cracked. “And she- she-...” And Strike, who had only heard Ted cry at Leda's funeral, heard the painful cry against his ear. It made his stomach cramp and his eyes shut close.

Leda had been dead for nineteen years, which was only a year less than the amount of time she had been alive. Those nineteen years were also the amount of time he had been granted something close to the mother he had lost. It seemed like he wasn't meant to have anything motherly for longer than twenty years. However, he kept in mind Joan had been there even when Leda was. Joan, from the moment he was born, had accepted him as that occasional kitten that sometimes popped in for cuddles and home, when his life came down in shreds. She had meant a steady home, home-cooked meals by the warmth of a fireplace, stability, home-made muffins, gardening together, sailing together, warm hugs and a door that would always be opened, ready for him whenever he needed it. After Leda had been murdered, Joan had redoubled her efforts to make sure Lucy and him didn't feel alone, that they felt they had someone to count on no matter what, and even if there wasn't a blood relationship with her, she had not only continued to treat Lucy as the eldest of her daughters, but also taken him as her only son, constantly offering him to come, constantly there for him, never giving up even when he was struggling, distant and cold.

And now, she was dead. Now, that door that had looked as if it would always be open and ready for him to come when he needed it, had not just closed, but broken-down. Even if Ted was still there, he now felt more orphaned than ever, because he had no one to feel like a mother anymore.

He didn't allow himself to cry while he attempted to comfort Ted. He didn't allow himself to cry while he called Lucy and told her the awful news, and he didn't allow himself to cry until he was alone in his shower, with the forehead pressed against the marbled wall, and felt so full of frustration and anger. Leda and Joan shouldn't be dead. It was too soon for both of them. Too near Christmas for both of them. And yet, they were both dead. It wasn't fair.

For the first time in years, he wasn't hungry enough for dinner, and after showering he simply drank two bottles of Doom Bar and fell asleep curled on his bed, feeling small and vulnerable. When he opened his eyes, he lied on the bed for a moment wondering if he had dreamed it all or not, as the reality of the situation sank in. He felt coldness inside his chest, and anger towards the world. His thoughts drifted to Ted. Although he was a strong man, he had lost his sister and his wife in the last twenty years. He was growing old and after all the tragedy he had seen, with his parents dying when he was young, he was being denied what he deserved; growing old with the woman he loved. His best friend and partner for the last forty years, roughly.

He didn't even want to imagine a life without Robin, his partner in most ways, his best friend, and he ached for Ted, who deserved _so much better_. For the first time he thought of his cousins, Sophie and Gwen, only a bit younger than Lucy, and he shut his eyes closed. He didn't want his little cousins to know what losing a mother was like. Not quite yet, at least. But they were living that hell now.

He knew he had to head to St. Mawes. It wasn't something to argue on; he had to be there as fast as possible, because Ted needed help with all the arrangements, and his cousins needed some comfort. Lucy had told him she and Greg would take the rest of the week off work, and take the children for an early weekend, and head to St. Mawes in the flight of the morning, to be in Newquay, Cornwall, in a bit over an hour. One of their cousins, or any friends from St. Mawes, could pick them up there, and drive the less than an hour drive to St. Mawes. The floods had been controlled during the day before, and by the time they were in Cornwall driving that area would be safe, as the rains moved on to Land's End and continued towards Ireland. Lucy had also considered taking the following week off work herself, as she had some days accumulated at work, in order to stay for longer and help more. She had been devastated but, always practical as she was, had quickly busied herself with arrangements. Strike knew it was the best way not to completely crumble when their family needed them.

Strike knew he needed more time to arrange his leave. He'd also get a plane, because it was the fastest way and his leg couldn't take the long drive anyway, but he had to speak to Robin, see his appointments and task of the next eight days or so, and re-schedule them into Robin, Sam or Andy's schedules. He couldn't just leave, not when the agency was his, anyway.

  
  



	3. To Joan

**Chapter 3:**

After making himself presentable with a clean shirt and another shower, and not feeling like breakfast, Strike went downstairs. Checking his watch, he noticed he had overslept a little bit, but no one would mind. He walked down the stairs the one flat to his office, and before entering it, he stopped to see his reflection on the mobile and make sure he didn't look like he had cried the day before. His face looked surprisingly normal, but his expression was more sullen that usual, more rigid, his eyes less lively.

He entered the office feeling an air of coldness surround him.

“Morning,” he said, looking briefly at Maggie. “Is Robin...?” he pointed inside, looking too serious, apparently, because Maggie gave him a worried look.

“She's there, yes.”

Strike nodded and walked inside, opening the door to Robin's office without preamble. She was busy typing away in her computer, but the typing stopped and she instantly looked up at him and frowned.

“Everything all right?”

“I'm going to Cornwall, I'll take a night flight tonight. I'll be out for a week, possibly more, so I need us to reschedule things, as I won't be available even on the phone, unless it's for emergencies, of course.”

She examined him and looked more concerned, but nodded and motioned for him to sit down. She had seen his rigidity, how he hadn't even smiled at her like every morning, how he seemed angry, and wondered if she had done something wrong.

“I've got Thysius this afternoon, but we need to move that as well, as I'm going to need time to pack,” Strike said, opening his agenda on the desk. “Red Beard tomorrow morning, the Flint case, surveillance at Mr Snob...”

“Okay,” Robin nodded, copying down his appointments into her agenda. “I'll call them all and see when we can re-schedule everything, don't worry about a thing. I could drive you to the airport.”

“No, I'll take the train or something. Better you stay and sort this mess out,” Strike said, standing up and heading for the door.

“Cormoran!” Robin called with a full scowl. He stopped and looked at her rather impatiently. “Why are you being so cold? Have I done something that bothered you?”

“I'm not being cold, Robin, I'm stressed-out and—,”

“Oh, cut the crap. I was there through some of the most stressful times of your life, and you've never been such an arse, you didn't even say thank you or, I don't know, hi. What's going on?”

“Nothing, you're just being paranoid...” he argued impatiently. He had to go back upstairs, call Ted, tell him he was coming, then call his cousins, see how they were doing. And he needed a suit, he had gotten so thin his suits didn't fit him right anymore, and he wasn't about to dress like a beggar for his dear aunt's funeral.

“Fine, have it your way,” Robin said quietly, looking back at the screen. “Sorry. I just thought after all we've gone through and all I've opened up to you in three years, you'd trust me to talk to me, your partner.”

Strike's dark eyes glared at her.

“Oh, come on, don't play the victim now, I've done literally nothing wrong,” Strike grumbled. Robin looked at him for a minute and then grabbed a pen and started writing notes on her agenda, rescheduling things.

He gave her one last look, but she went on with her work, so he left. Back in his flat, he dug inside the closet for a suitcase and a bag and started filling them. Since it was cold in St. Mawes, where the coast made it chilly, he packed jumpers and jackets, underwear, got a pair of elegant black shoes for the funeral. Then he decided he ought not to lose time and just get a new suit already. He only had three suits; two casual ones, and the elegant Italian suit Charlotte had gifted him many years before, and that now had stains of wine and blood that wouldn't go away, so he decided to just throw it away.

Going shopping put him in a worse mood, but he knew this was important, even if it might've seemed trivial. Joan had always gone out of her way for him, and she deserved for him to bide her farewell in his best attire. Besides, he often needed suits for dinners and events he went to undercover, so it wasn't a bad idea to get one or two. He normally would've preferred to have them made for him, but there was no time. Instead, he dragged his bad mood to the area where most men's stores were, and within three hours, he had managed to get himself a new suit that fit him pretty well.

By the time Strike arrived back at his flat, it was lunch time and, once again, he wasn't hungry at all. With his same pale, sullen expression and sad eyes, he got into the lift at 15 Soho Square, and after a few moments, the lift opened and he made his way into his apartment. The moment he unlocked the door, however, he smelled of home-cooked lunch and looked around, surprised to find Robin in the kitchen, cooking.

“What are you doing here?”

Robin turned around, turned the stove off, then walked towards him with a serious expression, took the two suits -a black one and a dark grey one- that Strike had bought, and put them on the sofa. Then, without another word, she hugged him. It caught Strike off guard. She rested her nose against his shoulder, her arms passing underneath his armpits so one of her hands rested on the lower back and another on his shoulder blades. Strike was immediately surrounded by her comforting flowery perfume and her warmth.

“I'm so, so, so sorry,” Robin whispered softly, and Strike understood all at once that somehow, she knew.

For some reason, the realization that after he had been so rude she had somehow figured it out, and had decided to come and make him a decent lunch, and instead of confronting him or asking him to open-up, she had just come and hugged him, the fact that she knew him so well and knew exactly how to truly comfort him, was so touching that, united to his already emotional state, he just crumbled and started crying like a toddler who's fallen hard. He cried out of anger, he cried out of frustration, he cried out of sadness, but he also cried out of guilt for his behaviour to Robin, and out of gratefulness because at least she hadn't left him yet.

For three years, Robin had insinuated at times that she was strong enough to stand his weight a little. Then, Strike realized it was the truth, because his cries had gotten raw to the point that all of him cried, his chest heaved, and his body leaned forward, but she didn't move a bit, supported him physically, and, he was conscious, whispered comforting things to his ear, that he could hardly decipher. She held him tightly, and at times, he had the feeling she was kissing his cheek or below his ear, where she could reach.

After he didn't know how long, Strike stopped crying but kept supporting on her, taking deep breaths and sniffling, feeling Robin's hand caressing his back. He could finally hear her.

“I've got you,” she was murmuring. “You're not alone. It'll be all right.”

He nodded and separated, rubbing his face with a big hand.

“Thank you,” Strike said, “for everything. I was a royal bastard to you this morning.”

“It's okay,” Robin shrugged, her eyes looking at him not with pity, but with unshed tears. The sadness she had wasn't one of pity, but one of empathy. She honestly felt sad for what had happened. “I hope you don't mind, I... I knew something was up, so the minute you left, I phoned Ilsa. I figured perhaps she'd know. She told me she had just found-out herself, that her parents called her from St. Mawes to tell her, and she's been calling you but you're not picking up. She was worried. I told her I'd do my part.”

“She's called...?” Strike frowned, still sniffling and rubbing his eye, and took his phone out of his pocket. He had one text from Lucy saying they had arrived safely and were with Ted and the cousins, a bunch of calls from Dave Polworth, and twelve missed calls from Ilsa and Nick combined. “Oh... I had my phone on silence for work. Let me just text her so she's not worried.”

“Sure. I'll get on with lunch. Bet you haven't eaten.”

Strike almost smiled at her knowledge, and composed a quick text for his best friend.

**'Forgot I had put my phone on silence for work, sorry. Having lunch with Robin and flying to St. Mawes tonight. Don't worry about me. Will we see you there? Corm xoxo.'**

Then he texted his oldest friend, Dave, who lived in Bristol but had most of his family in St. Mawes.

**'I imagine you've heard about Joan. I had my phone on silence, sorry I didn't pick up. Busy today, flying home tonight. Are you coming? Funeral's on Friday. Don't know time yet. I will call you when I arrive for more details.'**

Ilsa had replied while he texted Dave.

**'Hi Corm, no worries. Sure, Nick and I called work today and we're taking tomorrow and Friday off, but we'll take more next week if necessary. Nick's parents will watch the kittens. We'll fly there tomorrow morning. I called Lucy today, she says Ted's holding-up, but I can't wait to hug you all. You know we all love you so very much. See you soon xoxo.'**

Strike nodded for himself and put the mobile aside, taking a deep breath. He felt his eyes were still wet, and he dried them with his sleeve. Feeling awkward all of the sudden, he took his new suit.

“I'll iron this and then I can help you, okay?”

“No prob.”

He opened the ironing board in a corner of the kitchen where he usually put it, and started carefully ironing his two new suits. Then he went to his bedroom for two hangers, and hung them on them.

“So,” Strike said, holding each hanger up in one hand, “what do you think?”

Robin turned around and looked at them. Then she smiled softly.

“Good suits. Did you buy them just for this?”

“Yeah... all my suits are either too ordinary or stained, and I thought... well, it's silly. I just thought she deserved better. When I was a kid, she'd always insist I wore my finest shirt to church on Sundays, and she'd try to tame my hair. Unsuccessfully, of course,” he half smiled. “I'll put these aside. I think they'll go well with a silk navy tie she gifted me last Christmas.”

When he came back, Robin had put two plates of lunch on his small dining table. They contained his favourite sausages, some vegetables, and a bit of white rice. Varied and healthy, with a glimpse of bribery. She had put a tablecloth he only used when people came over, two glasses of beer, and had folded the napkins neatly next to each plate.

“Wow, Robin. Thank you, you didn't have to...”

“That's what friends are for,” Robin sat and so did he. They ate on silence for a bit, as Strike's appetite opened. “When did you find out?” she asked at last.

“Yesterday afternoon. Ted called me. Crazy thing is, I had just been talking with her on the phone for an hour the night before. She called often. Now she never will again,” Strike sighed, willing himself not to cry again, and sipped beer.

“Bugger,” Robin grumbled. “When Ilsa told me how it had happened... she deserved much better. She was a freaking wonderful lady.”

Robin had only met Strike's family once. On July, they had had to go to Truro for a case, and Strike had excitedly suggested they'd pass by St. Mawes, since it also happened to be Ted's birthday, and surprise his family. Robin had given them a box of several different teas from her favourite tea place in Harrogate, and the family had loved her so much Joan had gifted Robin a silver bracelet she no longer had a wrist thin enough to wear. Robin hadn't taken it off since, unless she was going undercover for a case.

“Silly me, I didn't think... maybe you'd want to come to the funeral? I just put a load of work on you, but we can postpone those things, if you want to come... Nick, Ilsa, and a few childhood friends will come, so there'll be people you know.”

“Would it be okay if I come?” Robin asked, looking at him with what he thought, with surprise, was hope.

“Of course. She would've wanted you around.”

“Then I'll come. I could grab a flight on Friday, early, come back on Sunday or so. Can I stay at the house like last time, or is it better if I book a room? I don't mind.”

“Don't worry, there'll be space at the house. You can use any of my cousins' rooms. They have their own houses, one in Falmouth, and another two houses from Ted's, so they won't be staying at his house when they live so close. Is it...?” Strike shrugged, unsure if it was polite to ask. “Have you ever lost someone?”

“Uh...” Robin gulped what she was munching and put her cutlery down for a moment. “Yeah. A few, actually, but no one that close, I suppose. My last grandpa died when I was six, my last grandma when I was nine, and then... my brother's dog Bruno, when I was very little... and a few other pets, like horses. They hurt a ton, but it's not like they raised you, I guess. Joan was practically your second mother, right?”

“Yeah,” Strike replied, nodding. “Although I think pets count,” he half smiled a little, which she corresponded. “Joan was always... I don't know. It seemed like she knew how to handle everything. I never heard her speak a bad word of Mum, 'cause she refused to discredit her in front of us. And she always tried to tell us things in the best way, to avoid offending us... like when Lucy wanted to get weird hairstyles in her childhood, Joan would always find the nicest way to tell her she'd be ugly as hell.” Robin snorted a laugh, and his lips curved into a soft smile. “She'd always tuck us in bed and tell us she loved us. I've never been so affective, but I have to admit those things could really turn a shitty day into a good one. Mum did as well, but it was nice of Joan to keep it up. And she treated Lucy and I so much like her own children, you could never spot a difference. There were people who genuinely thought we were hers, and even my cousins grew-up confused about what 'cousin' meant, 'cause for them we were just siblings with an extra Mum or something. I remember when little Gwen came to me, I must've been ten, and she maybe seven, six, or maybe less, and she told me in school they said cousins were the children of one's parents' siblings, right? And she said 'but Mummy and Daddy are also your Mummy and Daddy, right?' and I had to explain her how it went, and tell her her parents were just super nice to Lucy and I.”

“That's sweet. Children.”

“Yeah...” Strike nodded. “I'm not quite ready for this, Robin.” He murmured. Robin reached a hand across the table and squeezed his.

“One never is. But we push through, and we found out we can stand more than we thought.”

“Ted asked me...” Strike added, not moving his hand from hers. “He said there'll be a service at the church right before the funeral, and that someone should say a word. He'd try to say something, and Sophie would too, but he'd like it if I could join it. He says I've always been good with... writing out something nice and just reading it. He knows Lucy and Gwen will be too emotional, and probably Sophie, but he thinks perhaps I can manage it better. And I don't know what I'm supposed to say. People in St. Mawes knew her. They know she was amazing. They loved her for it.”

Robin pursed her lips in thought, and then nodded.

“That's not why Ted asked. He'll say how wonderful partner she was. Sophie will say how incredible mother she was. She and Gwen will probably think what to say together, and Sophie, who usually holds up better, will voice it. But only Lucy and you can truly say what really made Joan different from most people; she was a remarkable aunt, because she had to accept a job most aunts wouldn't have accepted or been capable of doing. She became your surrogate mother. And she didn't substitute your own, she was just... one more, providing something different and equally needed. That's what you should tell them. That she had a very hard task ahead, and instead of shying away or doing a crappy job Dursleys style, she made sure to be not just an aunt, but the best surrogate mother. And perhaps, you can team-up with Lucy, and do it together,” Robin explained. It made sense for Strike, who nodded slowly, as he put things together in the puzzle. “I also think that there's something different between Lucy and you there. Lucy had a Dad who sort of cared, who did something, but you had a man and a bunch of siblings who should've stepped in when you needed them the most, and who instead turned their backs on you and abandoned you, even denying you were his son, and then a woman who wasn't blood-related to you, but took you in as her son, even if you weren't.”

“You're right.”

She got up from her seat and searched in Strike's cabinets. A moment later she came with two small glasses and a bottle of Whiskey, that she poured into the glasses, offering one to Strike.

“To Joan,” she said, raising her glass and gulping it down in one sitting. Strike half smiled and nodded.

“To Joan.”

  
  



	4. Not going anywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year ;)

**Chapter 4:**

St. Mawes looked rainy and cold as the multitude in dark clothes made their way through its hills to the little, and very crowded church on Friday noon. Everyone looked awfully sad, including the priest, and the multitude party to let family in first, following the entrance of the light brown coffin. Ted went in first, with each of his daughters in one arm, and Strike and Lucy followed. The husbands and the children went behind. Robin was going to stay behind with Ilsa and Nick, but surprisingly, Strike took his hand with an expression that admitted no argument, and they sat together in the first row, Ted, his daughters, Lucy, Strike, and Robin. The husbands and children, along with Nick and Ilsa, sat in the front row as well, but in the other side of the aisle, and the second rows were occupied with the Polworths, distant relatives, and other family friends, that occupies the third and fourth rows as well. The rest was left for the numerous neighbours, friends and members.

Robin looked around, worried someone would think she and Strike were together. She wouldn't mind much, personally, but she didn't want for Strike to have to deal with gossip on his aunt's funeral. Uncle Ted looked at her serious and then smiled and nodded, comforting her instantly. She imagined the family considered she was the closest thing Strike had, and she shouldn't be in the other corner alone, when he was the closest person she had in Cornwall. It wasn't like the husbands, that had other friends and their own children to sit with.

“Thank you for coming,” Strike murmured to Robin's ear before the priest started the service. “And thank you for helping me with the speech.”

“That's what best friends do,” Robin smiled at him softly and, not caring what people would think, squeezed his hand. Being there for him mattered more than the gossip.

He looked rather handsome in his new black suit, with a dark blue silk tie, light grey shirt, and shinning black shoes. He had made his growing beard look nice, and, for the first time since Robin knew him, had put what looked like water mixed with some sort of hair gel in his hair and his curls looked quite nice. But his eyes looked the saddest she'd ever seen him, and his face, extraordinarily rigid. He had hugged her that morning, as she arrived to Cornwall and he picked her up, as if he was about to physically crumble, and the night before, as the family reunited for dinner, he had barely eaten.

Robin reflected this wasn't like the funeral of Mrs Cunliffe. Here, people genuinely loved the dead person and filled the room. Here, there were more tears, and here, her heart honestly ached. It ached when she saw Strike and Lucy doing their best efforts to hold it together and support their devastated cousins, sharing the pain of losing a mother too soon and in raw ways, it ached when she saw Ted try to smile as he hugged his family close, all his four 'children' at once, and it ached when she saw Ilsa burying her face in Nick's shoulder, incapable of muttering a word.

When the time came, Ted went up and spoke adoringly and with a shaken voice about how wonderful Joan had been as a friend, as a partner, as a wife and as a mother, and how she had always been there when she was needed the most. He broke down as he tried to talk of how much he wished they could've grown old together, and Sophie helped him to his seat. Then Sophie and Gwen talked about how great of a mother she had been, and the grandmother their children had adored, and Robin heard Lucy ask Strike if he could do it without her, because she could hardly talk. In fact as she said that, she was crying. Strike, who had prepared to do things alone, merely nodded, put an arm around his sister, and kissed the top of her head. Lucy had lived with Ted and Joan, full time, for five years before going to University, and Robin understood to her, it had been like losing her mother all over again. They had written things together, she and Strike, and that was as much as she could to. It had also been a tough couple years, first almost losing Jack, and now losing Joan.

Finally, Strike took a deep breath and stood up with glassy eyes. Robin wished him good luck in a whisper and he nodded, clearing his throat as he walked up the three little steps to the pulpit.

“As I considered what to talk about today,” Strike started with a hoarse voice, “I thought of what I could say that others couldn't. What I knew of Joan that others didn't. And so I thought of how I knew her for two years before my sister did, and I was already six when my first cousin was born, so for six years, I guess I was Joan's first training of motherhood,” he said, smiling a little towards his cousins.

“Joan was always the most sensible of the trio that in many ways I consider to have raised me. My mother, of course, but also Ted and Joan. While the siblings were rather dreamy and too adventurous, I remember ever since I was just a toddler Joan was the one to remind them to, you know, do adult stuff. She was highly against things that, as much Ted as Leda, didn't have a problem with, such as teaching me to sail before I knew how to walk, or, why not let Cormoran have a snake as a pet?” his light tone caused some laughter, and Robin understood he had wanted to turn things around a little. People were sad enough, and he had written thinking of the things Joan had that made him smile at the memory.

“As you all know, my uncle Ted was a SIB for many years, that went on to occupy the first seven years of my life, so although he was still the best of uncles, still present, he still couldn't be here as often as he would like. My Mum tried to bring us around as often as possible, and I remember every time Aunt Joan would make sure we had fun. She was always up for playing with us, not like all of those adults, myself included, who are so difficult to coax into playing with kids. Ted was never the favourite and Joan secondary. She made herself loved, she made sure we'd be as excited to see her as we were about seeing Ted. I remember,” Strike felt a prickle in his eyes, cleared his voice, and kept his eyes on his paper, “she was very insistent that I'd be like my uncle, and not like my father or my mother's boyfriends. So she taught me to cook, to do things around the house, to iron and to clean, and she always told me a man wasn't more of a man for having a gun or being able to fight, but for knowing how to truly care for his family. Feed them, keep their house clean, treat your partner like they were the most special thing in the world. And I knew right then if ever I became a worthy man, it'd be largely because of her. She was the one to stay at home and look after us whenever our Mum couldn't, the one to always make us feel like we were home, the one to put a sense of sanity into otherwise chaotic childhoods. She became part of our safe place, and the person we craved, my sister and I, when the world was hell. She'd stay up all night if we were sick, she'd cook for us, take us to school, spend hours and hours helping us, even when we became four, the four of us, with homework, tasks, reading to us, teaching us so we'd catch up when we went to classes where the others were far more advanced. If she wasn't for her, I wouldn't have met my best friend Ilsa, who's stuck with me for my whole life, because her mum and Joan were close friends from school. If it wasn't for Joan, in fact, most of the best things that have ever happened to me wouldn't have happened. Because she wasn't just an aunt. She treated us the exact same way I've seen her later treat her two daughters, because we were hers too somehow, and their home was our home too, and the only steady bedrooms we've ever had the luxury to have were in her house, where she'd encourage us to make them ours, decorate, and make sure our bedrooms reflected our personalities. I still remember how excited I was when she showed me my room for the first time, and it was just dreamy. It had sailing boats theme, with wallpapers of the world map because I loved my uncle's stories about travelling, and I even had my own set of toy soldiers. The best part was that every time I came back, Joan had made sure every bit was exactly where I had left it, and she even knitted my name and put it on a plaque on the door, to make sure everyone knew it was my place. The best part is that even today, before I came here, everything was still neatly in place, just the way she knew I like it.”

Strike turned around for a moment to blow his nose and continued, trying to stay put.

“I could talk about Joan for hours. I could tell you all about her bedtime songs, the bath routines where she'd let me put all my toys into the bathtub, the birthday home-made cakes with my name on them and my favourite ingredients, or about the time she and Ted drove all the way to London to pick my sister up when she needed them, all through the night, and wanted to take me too, about how she called me every day to catch up, and even about the time I joined in the SIB and she made me swear I'd visit often and I'd always consider the house here my home. About how she always found a way to bring me something on my birthday, even when I was in damn Iraq in the middle of the desert. There are thirty-nine years of events I could tell you, but we'd be here until tomorrow.”

“So there's just one thing left I'd like to say. To her daughters. To her grandchildren,” he looked down on them with glassy eyes, and saw Sophie and Gwen holding hands and trying to stop crying, looking at him. “I'm sorry I got several years more than you did, and I know how excruciatingly painful it is to lose a mother, doesn't matter the age, and I'm sorry, because at least Luce and I had your Mum to hug us and make us feel better, and you don't have anything alike. But I hope you can find solace in the knowledge that this room is full of people, even standing up in the back because there's no more space, that loved your Mum. That she was that special, and that you carry a part of her in your DNA forever, and in your hearts, that no one can take away.”

. . .

Strike had already finished an entire pack of cigarettes, and stared into the ocean from his safe spot sitting on the rocks of the beach. It had been tricky to get in there, with his suit and his prosthesis, so he wasn't going to move any time soon. Now that everything had passed, and the sun started to dive into the ocean, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

“I finally find you,” Robin's voice came around. Strike looked up and saw her making her way to him, until she flopped on the rocks next to him. She was still wearing her dark dress and her long black coat, her hair being like flames in the darkness of her dressing. “How are you doing?” she asked, looking up at him with her hands between her knees.

“I ran out of fags,” Strike admitted. She snorted a laugh.

“We're off to an awful start, are we?” He chuckled. “My Mum called, and she told me to give you all her love.”

“Your Mum is very sweet. Tell her I'm thankful.”

“I will. She's already forgiven you for firing me, you know... so... what are you thinking of?”

“Time,” replied Strike.

“Time?”

She looked intently at him and he curved his eyes into a sweet smile just for her. He seemed to be talking seriously.

“We all wish we had had more time with Joan, or with Mum. Ted's probably wishing he had asked her to marry him sooner, met her sooner, something. And although everything happens at its right time, I think sometimes we're so silly we wait more than we need to. Like... you could've divorced Matthew sooner, I could've left Charlotte sooner, I could've gone fix things with you sooner. But for one reason or another, we wait... and we waste time. There's nothing more precious than time, don't you think?”

Robin nodded slowly, not really knowing where he was going with all of this, but willing to let him go on.

“But sometimes you need time.”

“I know. Which is why I think sometimes it is needed, but I wouldn't want it to be a minute longer than it absolutely has to. And for me, I don't need a minute more.”

She alarmed and her eyes widened.

“Cormoran, what—?!”

“Relax, I'm not going anywhere,” he hurried, realizing he had been misunderstood. “Robin, do you know why I haven't had any relationship with women for over a year now? Not even one-night-stands?”

She breathed out in relief and then shrugged.

“No.”

“Because I needed time. I started to think that perhaps, at my age, I was too old for one-night-stands, flings, and informal shit. Most women my age want compromise, one that I could never give. I was past Charlotte, and I only needed to figure out if I was ready to focus in someone for real. To get invested in someone again, seriously invested, and pursue them with my whole heart in it, and not with my balls, you know?” she rolled eyes and smirked, hiding the sudden fear that he was about to confess he liked someone else and was going to go all seriously for them. “I also wanted to make sure I felt the right things for that person, and that such person had time to decide whether maybe... maybe I was worth the shot.”

“I bet she is,” Robin said casually. “Congrats,” she added, trying not to feel hurt, “I bet you manage to woo her. You're a nice guy, any girl would feel lucky to have you. Just please, make sure she's better than Charlotte.”

“Oh, she's bloody amazing. Next to her, Charlotte is like... like horse crap next to the galaxy.” He said, amused, feeling oddly romantic.

“Woah, you truly are struck by lighting,” she mocked, elbowing him playfully. Who was this girl? Did she knew her?

Strike chuckled and looked at her affectionately.

“Robin,” he said, “you are the woman I want to give my time to.” All of the sudden he felt like a nervous teenager asking the prettiest girl in the school to go with him to the ball. Robin's eyes widened and she looked up at her, then frowned slightly and he feared for the worst.

  
  



	5. It's all about them manners

**Chapter 5:**

“What are you talking about? You have a crush on me?” Robin's heart accelerated in her chest. Was he serious? And if he was, was it good or bad? They couldn't risk everything just for a fling, not the agency, not their friendship.

“A crush is what one has for the pretty model of a magazine,” Strike said, reaching a hand to rest on her knee, his eyes seeking hers with urgency. “Robin, I... Jesus, I'm crazy about you, all right?”

“You're joking.”

“No I'm not. You think it'd risk everything we have for a mere crush? Robin, you don't understand. I don't want to sleep with you and then pretend nothing happened, I want to take you to fancy restaurants, to concerts, to romantic roadtrips... I want everything with you. I want—,”

“No,” Robin stopped him, getting up. He looked up at her in panic and got up. Had he misunderstood all the signs? “Cormoran, I'm so, so sorry. You know you mean a lot to me, but I can't. You're only saying this because your aunt died and you're struggling—,”

“Fuck Robin, that's not—,”

“Listen to me, okay? You are ten years my senior, you are my senior partner, this is wrong, Cormoran,” she said, her eyes filling with tears, even more as she saw his expression, as if someone had punched him. “I can't throw it all away like this. I can't put everything I have at risk. I want this job so much, I want to be the best female detective in the UK, I want to eventually, maybe marry again, I don't know, okay? But I know I don't want to spend my life alone and I'm not one to date around. I'm not going to waste my time again with men, unless it's for something truly serious, and we both know you've never been a man to settle down in a pretty house to spend your life with a woman and have children, which I know I will want when the time is right. Perhaps not now, at the height of my career, but eventually, I'm going to want things very different from the ones you want. I want to be a successful modern woman who can be a badass detective and a badass mother at once, and so far you've truly been happy being a successful detective who searches for relief every now and then with a woman. Different lifestyles, Cormoran. For you, this may be the illusion of a romance with your partner, but we both know you're only confusing things. You're hurt, and I'm here and I comfort you, so you're confusing your feelings with me but you don't really mean it, okay? You don't. And I can't risk all I have and love just because you're under the impression that you're crazy about me.”

Strike looked down. He had thought about this for a year, was Robin not interested in him? He had thought... and why was she saying he didn't know what he felt? Of course he knew. He was crazy about her.

“I've wanted you long before Joan died.”

“We have no future together. We want different things. We're better just as friends, Cormoran, so please, please... can we pretend nothing happened and just be friends and colleagues as always?”

Her pleading look made him nod. He imagined perhaps she wasn't ready, perhaps she needed more time, perhaps this had been her polite way to say she wasn't interested, that he had misunderstood.

“All right,” he took a deep breath and stood up. “It's okay, Robin. I'm sorry... I'm going to go get some cigarettes, if you'll excuse me...”

He moved past her and she walked behind him.

“Cormoran...” she whispered. He didn't hear her, and she didn't try again, because she didn't know what to say.

That night, Strike lied in bed, feeling sadder and lonelier than ever before. He had genuinely been excited about being with Robin, genuinely wanted her, genuinely tried his best to improve his looks, be nicer, even funnier, he was even smoking less to make sure he'd smell better. He felt like a teenager with the strongest of crushes he had ever felt, something he knew was far more than a crush, and now he wasn't sure how their friendship would remain as it had been, when he had felt her rejection as the worst of blows. Perhaps, he thought, he wasn't attractive for her. His nose had twisted more than once, his hands were big and hairy, his face, bear-like, and his curls looked like pubic hair.

He gave his hands an accusatory look, wishing they were prettier, and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep.

. . .

As the days passed, Ted seemed to feel better, and so did his daughters, so Strike was encouraged to leave. Lucy was going to stay a little longer just to make sure Ted could take care of himself on his own, even if he had always been great at self-care and was a good cook and a skilled man, but it made her feel better. Their cousins lived nearby and had promised to take care of Ted and text them if anything was needed, and Nick and Ilsa were already back in London, as was Robin. It had been nine days since Strike had arrived in St. Mawes, and it was then that he packed his things, gave big hugs to everyone who remained behind, and got in the first flight he could catch back to London.

Robin and him had been acting friendly, as Strike tried to pretend he had only dreamed what had happened, although it was easy to feel there was some sort of wall between them that kept boundaries strict. She had, however, offered to pick him up at the airport, and he had agreed.

While Robin drove from Heathrow to Soho Square that evening, Strike could sense she wanted to talk about something. There was something in the way she'd anxiously look at him, the way she opened her lips and closed him, that made him ask what the matter was.

“It's nothing,” Robin replied, as the sound of his Land Rover's motor filled the quietness between them and she navigated her way through rain and intense traffic, down the M4. Strike kept his lips sealed, waiting for her to eventually explode, and finally she let a exasperated sigh and, with her eyes fixed on the road and her hands on the wheel, went on. “It's just, I just wanted to make sure we're okay. You know I consider you a very dear—,”

“We're okay,” Strike reassured her, interrupting her. He looked towards his window, shoving a hand in the pack of crisps she had surprised him with. “We're friends. It was just a stupid crush anyway, nothing truly meaningful. And I've been thinking a lot about it, you know? And I think it's just, 'cause I don't have many available female friends. You're good-looking, single... it's just natural instinct to, you know...”

“Of course,” Robin nodded, her eyebrows coming closer to each other, “right! But we're just the best of friends.”

“The best of friends. Want some crisps?”

Nevertheless, they didn't speak for the rest of the way, and Strike turned the radio on, hoping that it'd be enough to keep them from feeling a need to fill the silence.

Eventually, Robin turned into Soho Square and found a parking spot, so they went upstairs to first leave everything at Strike's, and secondly go downstairs to the office. As they opened the door calling good morning on their employees, they found the three of them standing one next to another, looking at a miserable woman who was crying hard into a handkerchief. She was black, in her fifties or so, and Strike identified her immediately as a squatter, by the holes in her jeans and her intense whiff of weed, perhaps not for having spoken it herself, but for sleeping in places frequented by druggies. Robin's wide eyes connected with Maggie's looking for an explanation.

“Hi,” Maggie said, clearing her voice, “so... this is Martha Baggins, she's here because her fifteen year old son, Joshua, has gone missing. She also has a daughter, Layla, who's at school, she's ten.”

“All right,” Robin took control, and Strike observed as she knelt in front of Mrs Baggins, and put a soft hand on her shoulder. The woman looked up, tears falling down her cheeks, and Robin gave her a soft smile full of warmth, her blue eyes connecting with the other woman's dark ones. “Guys, get some tea going. Hello Mrs Baggins, my name is Robin, and I'm going to find your son.”

The woman burst into more crying and threw herself to Robin's arms. Robin hugged her tightly and let her cry, not complaining, while Maggie went to make tea and Sam prepared mugs for it. Strike stood next to Andy.

“How long has she been here?” Strike whispered to Andy.

“About an hour. We haven't been able to get anything else out of here, we didn't know if we should call the police,” he whispered back. “She smells of...”

“Yeah. I know,” Strike waited until the tea was ready and then patted Robin's shoulder and gestured for her to move again. Robin sat next to the woman with an arm over her shoulders, and they observed as Mrs Baggins drank half a mug in one sitting, calming down a little. “All right, Mrs Baggins, I'm Cormoran Strike. I'm so very sorry about what's happened to your son, but unless you speak to us, we have no way of helping you so, can you please tell us what's happened?”

“Of c'rse,” said Mrs Baggins, her voice hoarse and weak. “My Joshua has gone missing. He's walking back from Rope Walk Gardens, two nights'go, 'fter havin' been playin' baseball with his friends. He gone there at least three times a week, 'nd he always phoned me when he's on his way back so I'd start dinner. He always took between nineteen and twenty-three minutes t'arrive, always,” she continued, “so when he called me 'nd told me he was coming home, I started dinner. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty. No sign of him. I call his friends 'nd we all go lookin' for him, along with neighbours, but no one finds him. The only thing we found was his backpack, with his school books, on the pavement in one of the routes from the park t' the house, next t' blood drops! Police says it's his.”

“So you've gone to the police already, are they looking for Joshua?” Andy asked then.

“Yeah,” Mrs Baggins nodded. “Police thinks he's been kidnapped. It's been happening in Whitechapel, with us.”

“Us?” asked Maggie, frowning. “Black?”

“No,” Mrs Baggins replied, looking visibly awkward. “Squatters.” Robin looked up at Strike, who didn't know how to interpret it. Then Mrs Baggins looked at Strike. “Look, I've no money. I knew your Mum, I've known you and little Luce when you were like us, there in Whitechapel. You got out of it, but we didn't, and I got children. The father ain't in the picture, he don't care, he's a druggie, and then he gone and get himself killed. So I have to care for them alone, y'know? Got nobody. Got no money either. But he's just a boy, like you were, you sure will look for him, right? I'm just askin' you t' find him, I do anythin', I'll even suck your cock! But please,” her eyes filled with tears again, and her voice broke, “please... you don't turn your back on your people, right? I helped you Mum. You help my boy? Please?” a tear fell down her cheek and Strike clenched his jaw.

He was conflicted. On one side, they were talking about kidnapping a minor, which Strike had never dealt with, and if he rejected this he knew the boy would probably be killed. But on the other hand, he knew squatters well, and he knew this was probably because Joshua had gotten himself into dirt head first by buying from gangsters that were now revenging from a lack of payment. And if he accepted the case, he could get bunch of mafias and gangsters after their necks, plus becoming popular for working free, and more people would demand that of him, if their business survived to the dangers of diving in the lowest areas of Whitechapel.

While he doubted, Robin had taken over and had asked Mrs Baggins what did she mean that's been happening in Whitechapel with other squatters.

“Started some months ago,” said Mrs Baggins, more calmed down as she had finished her tea. “Squatters in the area start going missin' and we think, 'must be they stuck their noses into dangerous people's businesses'. But then children start goin' missing. Teens. Young adults. Suddenly it's been two months, and we're twenty people less.”

“Twenty?” Sam's eyes widened.

“More or less. Happens every one, two weeks, one vanishes. But no one cares 'bout squatters. People ain't want police nearby stickin' their noses into their businesses, they fear police will kick 'hem out from their houses, or put them in prison, and when police tried to investigate, they threw bricks and stones and kicked 'hem away, so police won't come no more. Which is why I came. I hoped,” she looked at Strike again, “you guys are supposed to be the best. I see it on them news. And I thought, since you're one of us, they'll talk to you. Someone has to have seen somethin' and they just scared to talk, but they will talk to you, right? 'Cause you're one of us.”

“Okay,” Strike nodded. “Mrs Baggins, you've got any idea what you're asking from us? Whitechapel is infested by mafias and gangs, people who'll stab you dead if you owe them money, as you know. Chances are the people that have gone missing either joined them or asked for a favour they can't return, and got taken for that. They'll give them a beating and drop them back in the streets in a matter of a few days. If I intervene in their business, stuck my nose in wrong places, mess with the waters too much or threaten their businesses, and we're talking about an area fully controlled by very dangerous people, they won't just threaten our lives, but our families' lives, our business, everything we've worked for. And I have three little nephews to worry about, you know? I don't want any gangster going and ripping their throats when they come back home from school one day, certainly not because some teenager bought heroine from the wrong people.”

“My son's not like that!” Mrs Baggins shouted, scandalized. She stood up and looked fiercely at Strike, even though he was two heads taller than her. “My son's a good boy! He study, he do his things, he good, he do sports and all, and you trying to criminalize him because he's black and squatter! You fucking white! You think you're better than all of us just because you got out! Well it might please you to know your Mum could ever afford somethin' better just because he sucked on the right c—,!”

“Don't you say a word about my mother, you filthy...!” Strike went to shout, but Sam grabbed him, and Robin stood between the two raging adults.

“That's it!” Robin shouted, one hand on Strike's chest and one on Mrs Baggins shoulder. “Mrs Baggins,” Robin said taking a deep breath. “If you want our help, you will have to apologize to Mr Strike for what you've said. He didn't mean your son is a drug addict just because he's a black squatter, he didn't even reject caring for him, he only expressed his concerns about the dangers of helping you, that's all. Please apologize.”

Mrs Baggins pressed her lips together, sniffled, and then nodded, another tear falling from her cheek.

“I'm sorry, Detective Strike,” she said at last. “I'm just worried 'bout my kid, I didn't mean... your Mum was nice to us. She was kind. And if you don't wanna help, I understand, I ain't gonna bother you...”

“Now you apologize, Cormoran,” Robin told Strike sternly. He raised his eyebrows and so did she. “Do you want me to quit?”

“You wouldn't...”

“Try me then,” Robin crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

Strike pressed his lips together, clenching his teeth, and then puffed air.

“I'm sorry for what I said, Mrs Baggins.”

“And?” Robin insisted. “Don't you think you've been unnecessarily rude with Mrs Baggins? Don't you think you've been impolite and aggressive?”

He glared at her, but nodding, feeling his blood boil and knowing he didn't have another choice.

“I shouldn't have said those things, I didn't mean to upset you further,” Strike added. Robin nodded in approval, then turned to Mrs Baggins.

“We will help you under some conditions,” Robin said. “First of all, you can't tell a fly that you've come here. You can't speak of what's happened here, you can't tell anyone you've spoken with us. That's a must.”

“Okay,” Mrs Baggins nodded.

“Second of all, we will collaborate with the police, so you have to be ready to always tell us the truth and nothing but the truth. If you lie to us, even a little lie, we will abandon you and your son to your luck.”

“Fine,” Mrs Baggins nodded again.

“And lastly, we will investigate using fake names, fake covers, protecting our identity. You will have to help us.”

“Anything I can do, will do.”

“Then we've got a deal.”

  
  



	6. Of last warnings

**Chapter 6:**

They spent a couple hours discussing a plan with Mrs Baggins, learning everything they could about each and every person, including babies and little children, that had gone missing, many of them alongside young parents. There were entire families that had simply vanished from the map, and they wanted to help everyone. Finally, Mrs Baggins went home, Sam and Andy called it a day, as it was very late, and so did Maggie, leaving Strike and Robin alone.

Strike was furious. He would've agreed with taking care of the case, because there were simply too many people missing, and many of them children, to simply turn his back on them, so he wasn't unhappy about the others agreeing on taking care of the case. But he was about to bite Robin's neck off for the way in which she had confronted him, threatening with quitting just to get her way, manipulating him and stepping on him even though he was her boss. He was sure she had done it because now that she knew what he felt for her, she knew she could easily manipulate him, she thought he was wrapped around her finger and could be her little marionette. And the more he thought about it -and it had been hours already- the angrier he got.

“What's your fucking deal?” he roared the minute he heard the lift close with their employees inside. He hadn't felt so angry in a long time, and he didn't know if the emotions he had dealt with between Joan's death and Robin's rejection influenced his mood, but he didn't care. He could almost feel himself tremble with rage.

Robin, who had been organizing her office, jumped and looked at him, eyes wide.

“Excuse me?” she asked in a soft voice, frowning.

“Oh don't you fucking mock me now,” Strike snapped. “You think you're so powerful just because of what I said in the beach, that you can manage me as if I was some fucking marionette for you to use as you like, don't you?”

“What are you talking about, Cormoran?”

“I'm talking about your damn act before! Threatening with quitting, playing me as you like so you can get away with whatever you want, well guess what! I'm your boss! I'm the boss here, and no one steps on my face like you have! No one disrespects me like you have, because the next you play a similar number on me, I'll kick your arse out of here, do you hear me?!” Robin's eyes widened and she stepped back, unconsciously. She hadn't seen him so angry in, probably, ever, not even when he had fired her years before. His eyes were wide and his expression full of tension and stress, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists as if he was trying hard not to lift a hand against her. He shouted so hard she was surprised his vocal chords hadn't snapped, with his voice already being deep and powerful. When he had sacked her, he had been quiet, giving chills, but now he wasn't even trying to contain his fury, and her speechlessness, only seemed to piss him off further. “You're very damn lucky you still got a job Robin! If I were any other boss, I would've fired you ipso facto, but you knew that, didn't you? You knew that and that's what you did it, because somehow it seems like in the way to friendship we've let the lines between boss and buddy blurry for you to treat me as if we were equals, and we're not! From now on, I'm your boss, so you better fucking step up your game and behave, stop undermining me, because I won't tolerate a single more thing from you, and don't you think I won't fire you permanently this time because I will! If you thought you were indispensable, you were very fucking wrong.”

Strike turned around, grumbling under his breath.

“Would you believe, the little fucker walks around here as if she was the damn queen of fuckin' everythin', one works his butt off for six damn years and someone just barges in and suddenly think they can do the hell...” Robin could hardly listen any of this, because his voice had lowered dramatically.

She stood there in shock, eyes glassy, and had a mix of rage and sadness. She wanted to explode and confront him, but at the same time she was genuinely scared, for once, of truly losing her job. So she said the one thing that came from her heart.

“You told me we'd still be the best of friends, yet you're doing this because I rejected you. That's why you're truly angry.”

“No, missy,” Strike turned around and looked at her with disgust. “I don't give a shit if you like me or not. And of course I wanted for us to be the best of friends, but that clearly cannot be, can't it? Because every time I give you a hand you take the whole arm. First Brockbank, and now that I thought you had learnt your lesson, you do this. You disrespect me, step on me, just because we're best friends so you think I won't get furious. That's why we can't be friends, not because you don't love me, but because you don't respect me as your boss. I don't know what you see me as, but clearly not as someone who's worth your respect, Truth is, I've never, and I would've never, done to you what you've done to me twice now.”

“Look, Cormoran, I'm sorry,” Robin rushed, as he was going to turn around and leave, and grabbed his arm, but he brusquely pulled his arm away. “Cormoran!” she stopped him before he could leave the room, and searched his eyes with hers full of tears. “I'm very sorry. I just, I thought you were going to get too aggressive with her and I said the first thing that popped in my mind, okay? I was thinking only about making sure you'd control yourself before she'd run away and we'd lose those people that have gone missing because we can't do it without her. I'm sorry I said the wrong thing, but I swear, I never meant to make you feel like any of this, if I had had the time to think properly, I would've never said what I said. Won't happen again.”

“Well, for your own interest, it better not, or you'll lose your job, Ms Ellacott. And that's a last warning.”

“Please Cormoran, we don't have to break off three years of friendship because of this,” Robin insisted, her voice hoarse. “Look, it was unintentional. And... and you're wrong if you think you have to reinforce a boss-employee boundary here, okay? You're wrong,” she said softly, “because it's not the fact that we work together what's made us always be there for the other, it's not the reason we have our backs or we work weekends for the other, it's not the reason we love coming to work. It's because we're friends. It's because we value each other. It's because time together goes faster because we're always having a good time. It was our friendship what lifted this agency up as well, Cormoran, we did it together. Please... please don't... don't let my stupid mistake be the end of this.”

“Look, I'm going to bed. Please, just leave me alone for tonight, enough is enough.”

Strike gently pushed her aside and left the office. Robin had a feeling that the rage had vanished and that he was just about to drown his sorrows in alcohol, and felt utterly stupid. Kicking a chair, she simply uttered a Yorkshire-born 'bugger!' and prepared to head home.

  
  



	7. Friends through madness

**Chapter 7:**

It seemed the end of Strike and Robin's friendship. During the days of intense and stressful investigation that followed, he would refuse to be alone with her unless they were strictly discussing work, and he would pretend he hadn't heard her unless she referred to him as 'Mr Strike' or 'Detective Strike'. He'd also only refer to her as 'Ms Ellacott' or 'Detective Ellacott', and weekend drinks at the pub were suspended for the time being. Robin was miserable and attempted several ways of reaching out to Strike and fix their friendship, but all of them failed, even the one time she left him a note, remembering how he had, years before, talked of how no one wrote love letters anymore, and she had written him a small poem about how much he meant to her. She had seen him frown at it, rip it in shreds, throw it to the garbage, and then he had asked her to please stop 'wasting away' paper.

But she observed him intensely during the week that followed. It was a week plagued with stress, with the many cases they had and couldn't abandon, because they needed the money, and the added stress from finding the missing squatters, which had taken them to numerous meetings with Wardle and Vanessa in order to coordinate efforts with the police, that was taking the lead.

“I think he should be on compassionate leave,” Robin had expressed to Vanessa one night, as the two drank wine in Vanessa's small flat after a night out. “He looks severely depressed. He only talks about work and he doesn't smile nor laughs even a tiny bit anymore. And it's not just with me; Dave Polworth, who's his very oldest friend, called me the other day to ask if everything was going all right, because he had only gotten two words out of Strike in an entire phone conversation even though Arsenal had just won.”

“You're the psychologist,” Vanessa had said, wine glass in her hand and looking concerned. “Maybe Nick and Ilsa know what to do.”

“I called them. Can't tell them about the fight, 'cause he would kill me, but I told them he seems depressed. Joan was like his mother after all. And they said they noticed and had tried something, but he refused to meet up or anything. What if I truly broke his heart, Vanessa? Right after the funeral. What if this is my fault?”

“Don't flatter yourself. Listen, he's just had too much on his plate lately. Give him time, he'll come around. His birthday's right around the corner, I bet you can arrange something to cheer him up, right?”

Despite this, the situation worsened. Over a week after Mrs Baggins' visit, Strike arrived to the office in the worst of moods after having been walking around squats interviewing squatters. Robin had imagined it wouldn't be a welcomed experience, because it brought him bad memories, but still she had been surprised how truly moody he was. And then, Wardle had called. Strike had put him on speaker, as he often did when he was alone in his office and he was trying to work while listening to the phone, because he hated how warm and sweaty his ear got with the phone pressed against it for long, but what Strike didn't know was that the wall between his and Robin's offices was actually quite thin, and she could hear snippets of his phone conversation.

As Robin was used to this, she normally didn't pay attention, and she wasn't doing it either this time around until she caught Strike's voice raising just enough for her to hear clearly.

“What do you mean you think Joan was murdered?”

Robin scowled and stood up, walking quietly to the wall and pressing her ear to listen. Now she could hear Wardle.

“Well since it was your aunt, I asked a personal favour to a colleague at Truro Police so I could tell you everything about the ongoing investigation about her death. Last night my colleague called me and told me they had found out there was a sign on a road indicating it was cut due to the heavy rains, but the sign was removed, they don't know by whom, but they found it in a trash container in Truro. If the sign had been there, your aunt would've seen it, and she wouldn't have taken the road where she died. She took the usual, fastest way, only that the authorities had already been warned how bad the rain would be, and had cut it for safety. They said they put a police cord and several signs.”

“Maybe they're just saying it so no one blames them for ineptitude,” Strike grumbled then.

“No, Cormoran... listen, your uncle spoke with them. He said he didn't know anyone who could harm Joan, but your cousin Gwen confessed that someone had been following her around, a stalker. Joan told her, she saw them a few times, but thought she was just old and thinking the worst of things, that St. Mawes is a small place and it could just be coincidences. But Gwen thought she should tell you or your uncle, and she didn't listen. Police there got some camera footage, from businesses and the streets, and you can often see a dark figure following Joan far behind. Lurking.”

“All right but why would anyone want to kill an inoffensive old lady? She didn't even have much money or jewels...”

“Police think it's either related to you or that perhaps some crazy bastard thought if the road was blocked already with the river, she would be stuck and they could rape her or take her money or I don't know. For me it sounds like someone hired somebody to harass her and possibly kill her, maybe someone who has a grudge against your uncle.”

“Fuck, Eric...” Strike blurted out. “Fuck! If someone bloody killed her I swear I'll...!”

“We'll take care of it. Police is investigating, my colleague will tell me anything they find out and I will go straight to you, okay? Stay strong. We'll catch whoever's responsible and they will pay, I promise you.”

“Okay,” Strike sounded defeated. “Thank you, Eric. You're a friend.”

Robin separated from the wall, feeling her blood run cold and chills on her arms. Had someone truly killed Joan?

When she felt ready, and for this she needed quite a few minutes, she walked slowly towards Strike's office next to hers, and knocked on the door gently, holding a mug of tea exactly the way Strike liked it.

“Go away,” Strike grumbled. He didn't care who it was. His head was pounding and he had just put his head on his crossed arms over the table, wishing the world would quiet down for a little. He was not just mourning Joan and affected by his problems with Joan, but he was also worried sick about the squatters case, worried it'd backfire, worried children would die and it'd be on him, and now on top of it all, someone could be threatening his family's lives, and he was too far away and unable to leave London.

She cracked the door open just a little.

“I've got tea.” She announced.

“Just leave.”

“I will. I'm just going to drop this here real quick,” Robin slid quickly into the office, and put the steaming mug of tea on a corner of his desk. Strike didn't move, and she walked to him.

“I don't want to talk.”

“You don't have to,” She leaned, putting an arm over his back and another around his arms, and kissed the top of his head, hugging him the best she could. “I just want you to know you're very loved and you're the heart of this agency and we're all here for you.”

Strike sighed with his whole body.

“Robin...” he murmured.

“I know. You're mad at me,” Robin gave him a gentle squeeze and separated. “But I'm here no matter what. Even if you don't want me here.”

Strike looked up, but she was gone. He let a long sigh out again, and looked at his tea. It was his 'I love Cornwall' mug, and the tea was creosote and strong, exactly the way he liked it. He felt a surge of affection towards Robin, and a small smile appeared in his face. That woman truly knew how to tame him a little, as much as it pissed him off. He also kind of liked it.

  
  



	8. Don't die

**Chapter 8:**

After almost two weeks of intense investigation, they had managed to reunite a lot of information. Over the last three months, a total of twenty-six people had gone missing. Their ages ranged from months to thirty years being the eldest, but they were always lower-class, squatters, people with little to no family -and in many cases their little family had gone missing with them-, from all colours and in good health. None of them had disabilities, was considered in poor shape, or had any known health issues. This led them to believe that perhaps the reason they had gone missing was more macabre than they had initially thought, and that perhaps they had been taken for their organs.

According to the Met, contraband of organs was active even in the 21st century, and the organs were more often taken from healthy people in cities, where it was more unlikely their absence would be noticed, and where there were plenty of surgeons who, under threats or for a generous economical compensation, would consider performing the necessary surgeries. How the organs made it into the NHS was unknown, but the police believed this wasn't the most frequent case, and that more often than not the organ recipients had collaborated into the way their new organs would come, as everything was kept very secretly inside of gangs and mafias.

Shanker informed them that although his stomach turned just by thinking about those things, he had heard there were people who did that, but he had always thought it didn't happen in Whitechapel, most famous for its drugs, with which he made a living. Who did those things or where could they dig in for information, was unknown. Strike asked the squatters, but most of them were too terrified to give to much information, which led them to a desperate situation in which they didn't know how to proceed. Unlike their usual suspects, these were almost invisible, but at the same time very loud, and every second could mean one more child killed.

“It's clear they chose the squatters because it's the easiest thing,” Wardle was saying as Vanessa, Strike, Robin and him met for dinner at Vanessa's one night. “They just have to watch them for a while to make sure they're mostly healthy, and then just kidnap them. No one will miss them, and those who do won't want the police near or will be too poor for anyone to care much, as disgusting as it is.”

“Yeah, they probably thought they could go on for years before anyone would care to dig in,” Vanessa added, a glass of red wine in her hand, and sipped from it.

“What if that was the way to get to them?” Strike suggested, from his seat, his plate already empty. “If they're watching the squatters, we can catch them. We just have to watch whose watching.”

“Sounds easy, but problem is they know we're lurking. They've gone underground, you know how hard it gets once they do that,” Wardle said leaning forward with his hands interlaced on the table. “We've gone to the NHS making questions, to the institutions, no one knows anything, or so they say. And we've thought well, there has to be a place they're using for the surgeries and all, right? What would we use? And we thought, an industrial local that was abandoned, some are quite huge, easy entry. But there are hundreds.”

“What if we used a bait?”suggested Robin, who had been mostly quiet all evening. Although Strike was being nicer to her in the last couple days, she still felt she walked on eggshells around him. And although he hadn't talked about it, she knew he was worried about his family in Cornwall, worried Joan's death was intentional. He had deep bags under his eyes, and was paler by the day. He wasn't sleeping right, and Robin, who had been seeing a therapist weekly for a year, was starting to see in him signs of PTSD.

“Bait?” Vanessa inquired, looking at her long-time friend.

“We know they're looking for someone young, not older than thirty, in good health, with no disabilities or illnesses, someone who looks like good organs can be picked from. If we put someone with those qualities and a mic in the areas where the abductions have occurred, and they were taken, we'd just have to follow and they'd lead us to where everyone is.”

“It would be very dangerous, and besides, we could take a while to enter the building in question, if it is very secure. That person could be long-since dead by then,” Strike argued.

“Then that parson better volunteer, right? You can't pressure someone into such guilt,” Robin commented.

“Good luck finding a cop who's willing to do that for some squatters,” said Wardle. “Those who might be willing would be the parents who feel empathy for the children, and in the police forces not many are under thirty.”

“I can do it,” Robin offered, her heart drumming in her chest. Three pairs of eyes widened and fixed on her. “I'm twenty-nine, I've been into sports all my life, so I'm in shape, I know self-defence and this year I've been learning boxing and hitting the gym,” Strike knew it had been one of her coping mechanisms, after he had recommended it, “I'm healthy, strong, I don't even have allergies, and it has just been my birthday so I can't really look twen—,”

“Nonsense,” Strike interrupted, feeling she had just worsened his mood. “You're not risking your life like that, that's out of the question.”

“Oh, come on, Cormoran! What then? In the time we've been investigating, two children have gone missing,” Robin looked at Strike with intense eyes. “The longer we wait the worse it'll get!”

“I won't let you get killed!” Strike snapped. “Damn it Robin, haven't your traumas been enough? You've had enough shit in life to add—,”

“It's my decision!”

“What about your family, uh? Are you going to break their hearts like this? How do I look at your parents in the eye and tell them I let you go and get quartered and carved-up? Don't you understand we won't even find remains of you to bury!”

“I don't have to die in this!”

“It's a very real possibility, Robin,” Wardle intervened, looking seriously at her. “Look, you've been going through enough, Cormoran's right there. You've suffered panic attacks and all, what if when you see yourself there, with a surgeon about to split you open without anaesthesia, you have the worst panic attack and you can't even stand for yourself?”

“I haven't had one in over nine months,” Robin told them, insistent. “Eric, I'm not the most enthusiastic about the idea, but what better option do we have, uh? Any other option takes too long. We're talking about months-old babies too. Entire families. We can't keep waiting.”

“I hate the idea as much as you all, but I think Robin's right. I can't think of another idea, we haven't had a better one in over a week,” Vanessa murmured.

“Look, guys,” Robin continued, as Strike stood up shaking his head and walked over to the window, turning his back on them. “I trust you. I know I'll go in and there'll be the best of the best watching over me and then you'll figure it out. We can make plan A based on what to do if the entry is easy, B if it's hard, even a scape plan. I could help them out and you wouldn't have to find a way in. I know we can, we're the best team there is. And I need you to trust me. I've gotten myself out of life-threatening situations on my own twice, I'm confident with the right preparation I could sort a way for the squatters to get out.”

“Listen to me Wardle,” Strike walked firmly to Wardle and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You can't let her do this. She's a civilian, for God's sakes!”

Wardle seemed between the sword and the wall. His eyes travelled through them three before nodding.

“Robin will be our bait, under one condition. That we waste just a bit more time planning all the possible routes of action and making sure all of us know them by heart, specially you, Robin. We have to think what to do if there are guards outside, if there aren't, think of all the possible exit routes like ventilation con—,”

“Unbelievable,” Strike clenched his jaw, furious. “If she dies it will be on you, Wardle. And I will make sure you never forget it for the rest of your miserable life.”

“Come on, Cormoran...” Wardle got up, trying to ease his anger, but Strike had stormed off, because he felt if he stayed a minute more, he'll explode.

“I will take care of it,” Robin promised, uneasy. “Now let's plan. There's no time to waste.”

Sunday morning saw Strike sitting on his sofa, almost passed-out. He hadn't slept all night, and had instead drank to the last drop of alcohol there was in the flat, which included eight cans of Doom Bar, two bottles of wine, and one bottle of whiskey. However he didn't feel drunk, just exhausted. He had been feeling arrhythmic all night from anxiety and stress, he knew, from what Robin was doing, from the case, from work, and, above it all, from Wardle's information that Cornish police had arrested someone they had identified as the person who had been following Joan around and mislead her to her death, and the suspect had, at one point, assaulted a cop, taken his gun, and shot himself dead, too fast for anyone to help it, right when there was all the evidence that he had purposely driven Joan to her death.

What Strike knew after so many years on the job was that the person had shot himself because he had been hired by someone else. Someone powerful enough to stay home safe while no one suspected of them, and to have professionals die for them if they failed in their mission of killing whoever they wanted, and Strike feared Joan was just the first of a chain of deaths around him. If he tried to think of who had so much power and might have motive enough to do that, far too many names popped into his head, so he had convinced Ted to take his family on holiday to Brussels. He knew the chances of someone following them there and killing them were slim, and yet he couldn't sleep calm at night, not even after his friend in the army, Hardy, and his wife and children, had gone 'on holiday' with them to Brussels to keep them safe as a huge favour to Strike and also because the Army really valued the family, as there were two decorated SIBs in it.

“Cormoran!”

He looked towards the door, hearing Robin's voice.

“Cormoran!” she shouted again. “Open up!”

“Leave me alone!” Strike demanded stubbornly.

“Listen. We've been working on plans for hours and hours, we have up to six different plans depending on the circumstances, this is going to go all right, okay Cormoran?” Robin shouted from the other side of the door. “But I need you there! I need you there, with Wardle, making sure I live! It's the only way I will truly feel confident, okay? Otherwise I'll do it full of fear. Please, Cormoran.”

There was a moment of silence and Robin, crestfallen, was ready to go when the door opened.

  
  



	9. My mission

**Chapter 9:**

“Please don't die,” Strike hadn't meant to sound so pleading, so small, so fragile, so needy, but here he was, looking at Robin with the saddest eyes she had ever seen, his face thin and pale, bags under his glassy eyes.

She turned around and in two seconds she was between his arms, hugging him tightly and holding him as he hugged her back. As their hug ended, he pulled her inside and closed the door, but then he seemed to not know what to do, supporting his weight on the closed door with one hand. Robin took his other hand and pulled him inside. She grabbed two glasses of water and guided him to the sofa, flopping one next to the other. Robin sipped a large gulp of water to calm herself and then took Strike's hand between hers.

“Cormoran, I've known you for almost four years now, and in all this time you've been my greatest teacher and mentor. You've taught me almost everything I know, you've inspired me, and you've feed an urge in me to do what's right, to fight for justice, to leave this world a little better than how I've found it. You were only twenty when you got into a life-threatening job because it was what you knew was right, and you've kept being selfless and putting yourself on the line for anyone else ever since,” she said calmly, her voice caressing his eardrums softly. She looked at him in the eye. “I know if you fit in these people's targets, you'd do the exact same I'm doing. You know if I didn't, I wouldn't be true to myself. I know I might die, but I'd much rather die at twenty-nine while trying to save over twenty innocent souls than dying old and white-haired knowing I only made it so far through cowardice, and that in the process, I didn't move a finger for all those people. Their souls would haunt me forever. I don't want to die either, but it's going to happen some day, and I'd rather it happens while doing something worth-dying for. And at the same time, I trust the team very much and I know the odds are in our favour to take us all out of there alive and well.”

He let a long sigh out, but nodded, squeezing her hand. With a shaking hand, he took his glass of water and took a large sip from it, trying to gulp down the tight knot that had formed in his throat.

“I know the odds are good,” Strike admitted, “and I know I couldn't expect any less from you... but what if you die, Robin? How do I look at your parents and tell them I let some bastards cut you up in pieces? How do I continue with... anything... without you?”

“If I die,” Robin made a conscious effort to keep herself from sobbing at the idea, and keep her voice even, “you tell my parents that I wouldn't have been able to look at them in the eyes again knowing I let those people die and did nothing to save them, you tell them I died doing what I loved most, and you tell them I died at peace because I did it knowing my death would mean something good. Would mean those people would live. We've made quite the amount of plans, and Plan E is, in the event communication with me dies, presume I'm dead, go in with all the forces, forget about me and take those people out no matter what. So you tell my parents the only option I gave you was to help me try to success.”

“Robin...”

“And,” Robin continued, taking a deep breath to steady her voice, even if her eyes were glassy, “you go and make our agency the best one in the UK, because that's our dream. You do it because it's our baby, and if I'm gone, it's the last part of me you're going to have, all the sweat and tears I poured into that agency. And you make the best out of your life because with one that gets lost is enough, and above it all you do not ever get with a girl like Charlotte again.” She added the last in a mocking chastising tone, and he snorted a laugh and rubbed his eyes.

“You're the most outstanding detective there is, you know?” Strike said hoarsely. She smiled softly. His words always made it to make her chest fill with pride. “But if I'm on board, I hope you know no plan is going to keep me from going there and get you out with my own hands if I have to, understood?”

“Cormoran...”

“You are _my_ partner,” Strike said in a tone that admitted no argument. “We have each other's backs. I'm not leaving my partner behind, just like you wouldn't either.”

She looked intently at him, and supported her head on her shoulder, throwing an arm around him to half hug him.

“Deal.”

They sat hugging for a while, until Strike's stomach growled in a way that startled them both and made Robin giggle as she separated. They had been so cosy and comfortable, none of them had wanted to let go just yet, but hunger called, so Robin stood up and walked for the kitchen, claiming she'd make some lunch.

A few minutes later she came back with two plates of fish and chips smelling deliciously and Strike looked up at her with eyes wide with surprise, wondering where had that come from.

“How'd... when...?” he babbled, attacking his dish with devotion.

“I know, right? Didn't think you'd have food either.” She joked.

After lunch, Robin put him up to date in all the plans for the rescue operation the next day. They'd wait until the usual abduction hour, that was once the night had arrived, and she'd walk around an alley in Whitechapel in an area where people had usually gone missing. She'd make sure to look as if she was lost and didn't have much money, pretend she was jogging and had suddenly gotten lost. With a bit of 'luck', someone would try to kidnap then, and she was only to make a minimum effort to protect herself, so that they wouldn't give up on her. She'd be wearing a high-technology small camera with an incorporated microphone in one of her jacket buttons, and that way, police would be able to see and hear everything that was happening.

Strike was left with a good feeling about it, confident although anxious, and bid farewell to Robin with a tight hug, agreeing to meet her the next day for lunch at The Tottenham.

That night, he slept uneasily, nervous about what was to come. Robin had told him she wasn't going to inform anybody of what was about to happen. She wasn't even going to write any letters in case she died, because the idea of preparing something for a possible death made her feel like she was, in fact, going to die. Like hope was lost. And maybe it was stupid to think that way, but she couldn't help it. All her focus now was on getting those people our of there, saving them and surviving herself. Strike part admired her for this and part found himself even more stressed, because he wouldn't have anything to help him sort things out in the event of a tragedy. But before he fell asleep, he thought of poor Mrs Baggins, who would be crying herself to sleep hoping her son would come home, and he vowed to do anything in his hands so the next night everyone would come back home safely.

The lunch with Robin the next day was filled with way more laughter than Strike would've had expected. It seemed like their friendship had finally been restores to what it had been, and Robin looked at him endearingly again, and they were sharing jokes, some of them quite dirty, and focusing on having a good time while drinking beer and eating their favourites.

“Robin, uh...” Strike didn't know what to say, as they were about to say goodbye until they met again that evening. Robin seemed to sense he was about to feel sad again, and shook her head.

“It'll be all right, Cormoran,” she promised, hugging him. He was starting to get used to her hugs, to crave them and cherish them, and he wondered how he was supposed to survive without them.

“Come back home.”

“You know me. I'm too bold to get killed,” she made sure her tone was light, to keep at bay any traces of fear and anxiety. She wanted for him to see her as someone confident and sure of what she was doing and of the success of things.

He nodded and they separated. With one last smile, Robin turned around, waving goodbye, and disappeared behind the corner.

  
  



	10. She hero

**Chapter 10:**

The police had reunited in a small flat in one of the highest storeys of an apartment building in Whitechapel, very close to the alley where Robin would be. Only the minimal amount of people had been called into the mission, to ensure no one would suspect. There were twelve police patrols in Whitechapel in incognito, ready to be called into work to follow the criminals once they had kidnapped Robin, and in the flat, Vanessa, Wardle, Robin and Strike were accompanied by IT specialists who had put together a computer from where they could see and hear everything the camera Robin was wearing caught.

“See?” one of the IT was explaining Robin, as they both sat in front of the computer. “We get image and sound, although the quality is not superb, obvious, but you can get an idea of how we will see.”

“All right,” Robin nodded, eyes glued to the screen. She was wearing old sports clothes to fit into 'sporty chick with not much money' category. Outside it was dark and there was a soft drizzle.

“It's almost time,” Wardle announced, checking his watch. “Let's do one last check-up.”

“Right, no watch, no wallet, no jewellery,” Robin confirmed, checking herself. “Sport shoes tied properly, stomach full enough... I'll have one last pee though.”

She rushed to the bathroom and Strike, Vanessa and Wardle stood tense. They all wore plain clothes, and Vanessa would follow Robin half a street before turning into another, to make sure they hadn't been ambushed. Robin was back quite quickly, ready.

“Any questions?” Vanessa inquired, worried.

“I know the plans by heart, no questions.”

“And remember,” said Wardle then. “First priority is to avoid casualties, okay? We will hear if you need help, we have people ready to kick in. Let's not risk lives stupidly, okay? Your life isn't any less valuable than any of theirs.”

“Understood,” Robin nodded. “Don't worry guys, I've got it. Cormoran's birthday is right around the corner, and I wouldn't want to miss all that wine and cake.” She joked, chuckling at Strike. The small smile he showed her did wonders to calm her nerves.

“All right. Well, best of luck,” Wardle hugged her. “You're an inspiration for all of us, woman.”

“Kick some arse and return in one piece,” Vanessa hugged her as well.

“Will do,” Robin assured, smiling at her friends. Then she looked at Strike.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Strike said trying not to get sad again. “Ask for help if you need it, don't be cocky, don't underestimate, stick to the plans and don't have any unnecessary risks. Don't let panic take over, keep a cold mind, and be the smarty-pants you've always been. At the minimal sign of major trouble, I'm coming.”

“I know,” Robin nodded again. “I'm ready. I trust all of you immensely.”

“Okay. Now come here,” Strike hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “You make all of us look like cowards and I'm so fucking proud of you.”

“That's the goal,” she joked, winking at him. “See you later, guys.”

“See you later,” they said at unison.

Vanessa exited the building just a minute after Robin, and as it was the plan, followed her from the distance as Robin jogged away, humming some song to appear distracted, and checking the names of every street a lot to appear a bit lost, and then Vanessa turned into another street, entered a bar, and lost sign of her. She'd wait twenty minutes before getting back to the building, in case any of the kidnappers was around, observing.

Strike's eyes glued to the screen back at the flat, and observed as Robin entered the alley.

“Okay, wot now...” they heard Robin say, as she stuck to her 'I'm a poor girl who's gotten lost' character. She had even changed her accent for a low-class one, and Strike almost laughed. Of course she'd do that.

“Look,” one of the IT pointed to a dark figure lurking in a corner of the alley, next to a parked car. “Looks suspicious, doesn't it?”

“I was expecting a van, but fine,” Wardle shrugged, frowning at the figure.

“Could be a dealer,” Strike said, looking as well.

“Excuse meh, mate,” they heard Robin say, as she too had noticed the figure and walked towards it. “Thought there's a park here?”

“Sure,” the figure moved and they saw a tall, wide man, with dark hair brushed back and a receding hairline. Strike knew right away he lied, because he knew the area. “You new in the area?”

“Yeah mate,” Robin replied. “Got kicked out, y'know... so I found a place here. So d'you know the park? A squatter told me 'bout one...”

“Okay, that way,” the man pointed in one random direction and Robin walked towards it. A moment later they heard her yelp, hustle, struggle, then something covered the camera for a moment, and then it was dark and they heard a motor.

“Robin...” Strike murmured, his heart drumming in his chest, as he stared at a dark screen.

“It seems like she's in a boot,” an IT guy said.

“Is she unconscious?” Vanessa wondered, squinting her eyes at the screen.

They held their breaths for a moment, seeing if there was any movement, and then suddenly there was a slight movement and they heard Robin's voice.

“I'm fine,” she whispered, “I'm fine, I think I'm a boot. The car was grey, the plaque number is...” Strike pulled out his notebook, and wrote it down, at the same time an IT did the same.

“I'll speak to the patrol to follow her,” Wardle announced, pulling his car.

“We're turning right,” said Robin, her voice just a whisper. “I feel it... now right again... left... we must be going at about sixty kilometres per hour. Right... left...”

They kept writing down all her indications and telling the patrols, that announced they had the car and were following them, using diverse cars that incorporated as others vanished, so the kidnappers wouldn't see one same car following them for a long time, and wouldn't suspect.

“Ouch, this road's a bit bumpy...” Robin indicated them. “Probably old one...”

“How can she even tell the speed?” an IT wondered out loud.

“'Cause she's a car nerd and fucking good detective,” Vanessa said proudly, staring at the screen and scribbling down her own notes. “Patrols said they're leaving the City towards Hackney.”

“Guys, I can hear a train,” Robin said suddenly. “In the far distance... I think we're driving near railways. And it's been a straight line for a while... you know what, I'm going to leave a bit of saliva here, 'cause that's forensic evidence.”

“That's my girl,” Strike murmured, nodding to himself.

“There are breweries in Masham,” Robin murmured after a couple minutes. “So if I tell you I'm smelling beer, you guys believe me right? Beer. You'd love this, Cormoran.” They heard her snort a laugh. “I've got to say guys, one would imagine lying down in a car would be comfier than this... think I'm going to puke. Jesus, driver's shit.”

“They're in the A107,” Vanessa indicated, seeing in her mobile the patrols' messages.

“There's a brewery there,” Strike said.

“She's bloody good,” Wardle, who stood with them, opined. “You sure you don't want to lend her services to the Met, Strike?”

“Over my dead fucking body,” Strike grumbled, knowing he was amicably teasing. Wardle chuckled and patted his back.

“Relax. It'll be all right,” said Wardle calmly.

“Okay, we're slowing down,” Robin indicated. “Tell the patrols to slow down or they'll suspect. There's a lot of traffic here... we're turning left. Right... and right. Parked. See you soon guys.”

They heard her focusing on her breathing to make sure the kidnappers wouldn't suspect, and heard the motor stop.

“They've gotten into Sidworth Street, there's a permanently closed industrial unit there, they're in its parking lot, it's fenced and with a no entry sign,” Wardle read from his phone. “Okay, time to go. You keep informing us.” He told the police IT, who nodded.

Wardle, Vanessa and Strike moved into their car. There from a laptop they could continue to follow what Robin could see and hear, and they'd join a number of patrols that were hidden in Helmsley Street, just a few meters by. In less than a quarter of hour, they hard arrived, all while they witnessed in their laptops how Robin was tied, begged to be released just to stay in character, and was guided inside the industrial unit, and sat next to a bunch of other people who were scared, lonely, and some, crying. They could hear children crying and hear Robin trying to comfort them.

“So what's the plan now?” Strike said, standing with other cops in the small, narrow street, that was a dead-end. They had a big apartment building with huge windows at one side, and a blue door from another building in the other, next to windows where the word 'betfred' could be read.

The police teams had reunited, including specialists in hostage situations and the specialist firearms command, and had opened a floor plan of the industrial unit on top of a bonnet.

“Well, the unit has a large roof almost plain and with several windows. We could get agents in using a helicopter, but they could hear us, run away, hurt any of the hostages or threaten, and we're not here to negotiate,” Zoe, head of the specialist firearms command there, informed, looking at the floor plan. “It's two buildings at each side of a parking area, each has three and a half storeys, windows, and external corridors in each storey, with external stairs.”

“Ms Ellacott is tied-up, like the others,” said Wardle, looking at the laptop screen. “She's going to need some help. The initial idea that she may be able to guide them out on her own seems tricky. The windows are blocked with wood and we can't see anyone from outside, it's as if they're pretending the building is empty as to not arise suspicion.”

“So we need to get somebody in,” Zoe said.

“I will,” Strike said firmly. “I'll get in. I've got military experience, I can do this.”

“I will get inside with him, Zoe,” Wardle said.

“With all due respect, Eric,” Zoe argued. “You're from homicides, and the main priority here is the hostages, so I'd rather my team took care of it. Mr Strike, you're only a civilian...”

“The bait is my partner, I won't stay behind,” Strike's tone didn't admit argument. His eyes were glued to the screen, where nothing was happening now. They could only see at least fifteen people, babies, children, teens and adults, locked in a small room. “Not to mention my client is one of the hostage's mother.” Robin had asked if any of them was Joshua, and a young, black boy, had answered, so he was now sitting with Robin, who had assured him help was on its way.

“Fine,” Zoe puffed out. “You'll go in with me, Mr Strike, and another two of my team, following Plan C. My people have seen that in this corner of the building there are no security cameras and the windows are completely blocked, so I think it'd be safe to climb onto the rooftop through that corner. A firemen truck could be easily parked there and its long ladder would help us to do so. Once we're in the roof, we'll get inside through the rooftop windows, and try to injure the kidnappers with silencers in the weapons, so they're surrendered. When the situation is more controlled, we'll give green light for the rest of the team to barge in. We'll use the darkness of the night to hide.”

Strike stood at the rear of the small group, and was given a firearm. They had to wait a few minutes for the firemen truck to arrive, and then they used its ladder to reach the rooftop of the industrial unit where they suspected surgeries to extract organs from hostages were illegally performed. It was a dark rooftop, that formed little hills and that wasn't the easiest thing to walk over in the dark of the night, so they used small lanterns, trying not to call for attention. The truck left, and the four made their way to a big roof window.

  
  



	11. Invincible together

**Chapter 11:**

“Clear,” one of the policemen indicated looking at the window.

Instead of breaking it, that would cause too much noise, they carefully used tools to take it out, and used a portable ladder they had carried to descend to the floor below. It was an empty, dark, dirty, white corridor, and it gave Strike chills. A cop situated behind Strike to make sure no one attacked from behind, and the four walked very quietly, which was hard on Strike, due to his leg, but he made a major effort, thankful that in the last year he had gotten more fit. He could hear his heart drumming as they found more stairs and went to the storey below. Then, they could hear some voices.

“Everyone's locked for the night,” was saying one female voice. “The surgeon will be here at three to start the following surgery. In the meantime, keep going over the corridors, make sure no one gets out.”

“For sure,” a man's voice replied.

The two voices were on the other side of the corner, so Strike was ordered to stay behind, and the cops went in and in an instant, had taken one figure each from behind, closing their mouths with one hand and the other cop pointing at them with a weapon. They were brought to Strike, who also pointed with weapons, and one of the cops pulled out a syringe.

“This will keep them quiet,” Zoe said, as the other cops held the two figures, that wore balaclavas and struggled to try to get fry, and injected the syringe content into both of them. After a few seconds, they stopped moving and Zoe spoke into her walkie to declare the way in free and order a team to come in and take the two kidnappers into the police station.

The kidnappers, who wore dark clothes, had fallen unconscious thanks to the drugs, and now would be taken in for questioning while they rescued the rest. It was important to leave people alive to interrogate, because they needed to answer many questions; what did they do with the organs, who was collaborating, how long had this been going on, etc. It had become a matter of national health, as they didn't know if the organs were given to normal patients that didn't know how they had been acquired, without the requirements of transplant agencies.

One another team had silently arrived and divided, part of them leaving with the two kidnappers and another part staying to take any more, they continued walking very slowly and securing every corridor, checking for security cameras or any other criminal. Suddenly, Zoe received news from her walkie that Robin and Joshua had been taken and during the struggle, the camera seemed to have broken and they weren't receiving image or sound anymore. Strike panicked, but held it all inside and they searched for the room where the hostages where. It was still only midnight, they had time.

Every story was a labyrinth of white, pitch black, narrow corridors with big, empty rooms at each side. All looked like no one had taken care of them in years, and more than once they found rats, spider webs, and cockroaches. The third storey had been completely empty, in the second storey they found the two kidnappers they had taken, and finally, they went to the ground floor. Here, they could hear more voices. As they waited behind a corner they heard two more people chatting on the other side.

“The young boy is fit, we'll take his organs, all of them, we can sell them in the black market for good price,” one of the persons said.

“What about the red-headed?” said another.

“She's a bit too old,” said a different voice, “but she's pretty, her eyes would be sold for a bunch, and her legs are delicious. Good money.”

“Besides,” the first voice spoke again. “She seems fertile, we could sell her uterus for good money.”

Strike clenched his jaw. They were going to pay, Strike would make sure of that.

Ten minutes later and with three more unconscious people -this time punched to unconsciousness in as much quietness as possible- arrested for interrogation, the group divided and Strike and Zoe went to look for Robin and Joshua, while the others looked for the other hostages. Strike and Zoe, who was tall, blonde, and looked rather fierce, walked slowly, aiming their riffles and lanterns at every dark corner, until they heard what sounded like fighting, struggling, yelping. They rushed their steps towards the noise, and entered a illuminated room with blood stains on the floor, surgical equipment thrown on it, and a metal bed.

“Joshua, Joshua, wake up, please wake up! Cormoran!” it was Robin. She was knelt on the floor, trying to wake Joshua Baggins, who lied on the floor with blood covering his stomach and an ashen face. Robin had tears in her eyes, and hugged herself with her left arm. Strike's eyes widened seeing her left chest was covered in blood.

“Robin! Are you okay?” Strike rushed to her side.

Zoe looked around. There were three bodies on the floor next to two guns. The three bodies had, like Robin and Joshua, bruises and cuts from a tough fight, and these three bodies seemed either dead or unconscious. Zoe moved them with a feet and saw they were in fact dead, as there was blood pouring from one's neck, his eyes opened wide and not moving, what seemed like a gunshot wound in another's chest, and another had blood streaming down their face. Robin yelped and Zoe turned around. Strike had taken his jacket and pressed it against Robin's clavicle as the young woman sat on her arse with her back against the wall, her cheeks covered in tears, and hissed as he made pressure.

“I was stabbed with a scalpel,” Robin said hoarsely. She sniffled and looked at Joseph. “Is he...?”

“Yeah,” Strike, who had already checked it, nodded, feeling sad himself. “He was shot, probably in the abdominal aorta, nothing you could've done. Did you kill these?” he pointed with his head to the bodies. Robin took a deep breath and sniffled again.

“We did it together,” Robin said, growing pale. Zoe pulled a bottle of water from the backpack she had with tools, and helped Robin drink some. “Thanks. They were going to do it to Joshua. They said it was his turn, so I got up and tried to fight them, the two of us did. We fought so hard, and I thought we had somehow won... but then I turned around and... bugger, Joshua... he was just a kid...” she had started sobbing and Strike pressed his lips against her forehead.

“Sh...” he whispered. “You were impressive. We've lost him, but there are other people we have to get out.”

“H-Have you f-found them yet?” Robin sobbed, taking another deep breath to calm herself. She felt exhausted as she lost blood, and she couldn't move her left arm.

“Yes,” Zoe was just checking her phone. “I've been messaged. They've found a room with over fifteen people, some less than a year old, alive and well. They had to kill four of the kidnappers, but they're already evacuating the people through the main door. My team's barging in.” As she said so, they heard a loud noise as the police barged in, and a few seconds later, two armed policemen entered the room. “We need an ambulance over here, okay guys?”

While orders were given, Strike kept his attentions on the wound Robin had, looking after her. She had cold drops of sweat falling down her face, and he was so relieved it was all over.

“You're going to be fine,” Strike said. “I think the scalpel fractured your clavicle, but didn't reach deeper, and although there's a lot of blood, I wouldn't say it comes from an artery, which is good news. They'll fix you up in the theatre. You've been very brave, and incredibly strong.”

“I couldn't save him,” she whispered weakly. The white light from the room hit her face, making her look even more ashen, and the smell of chemical products filled Strike's nose intensely.

“You saved a bunch of children, Robin. Including babies. Tonight, many families will be reunited, and we'll bring Joshua home, all right? While you're in the hospital, I'll make sure everyone is brought where they belong.”

“To poverty?”

“Robin,” Strike did his best not to be too tough on her, given the situation, “you can't save everyone, but you've done a great job today. These people are poor, yes, but I assure you, there are things far more important than money, and all of these people are loved enough that someone missed them and told us to find them. Each and every one of them is missed. Do you understand? That's what counts.”

A police helicopter flew Robin to the nearest hospital able to treat her, and Strike was left to wait in a waiting area for her small surgery to finish. While he did so, Vanessa and Wardle approached him with novelties.

“First of all,” said Wardle. “I've got news about your aunt. Police arrested the person who caused her to go in the wrong direction and die. He's a schizophrenic who has a record of assaulting women around your aunt's age and killing them for the money, so we think that's what he planned on doing with your aunt, that he thought she'd only be trapped with water in front of the car, unable to go, and he could assault her. He'll be judged and go to prison, but they've found a good load of evidence against her. Your uncle has just been notified.”

“Thank God,” Strike breathed in relief. “I'll call him later. And what about what happened tonight?”

“Everyone's home. We lost ten, that couldn't be found, but their DNA will probably arrive somewhere and half of London's police is looking for their parts,” Wardle said. “Good news is everyone who hasn't been found and is presumably dead is an adult, so we got the children, except for your boy.”

“There are only two children that don't have parents, siblings. We think their parents were killed,” said Vanessa. “A little girl, she's a year and a half, and her little brother, eight months old. Other hostages said their parents were a young couple, and that the kidnappers took them one day and no one's seen them since. Social services are taking care of them.”

Strike had a sudden idea. Nick and Ilsa had been trying for a baby for a long time, and in the last year they had been fighting to become adoptive parents. As far as Strike knew, it was a long process and now they were authorized to act as foster parents, with the option of adopting those children.

“Guys, do you think the social services might be interested on bringing those children to a new, capable family?”

. . .

A couple hours later, Strike sat in a small hospital room next to Robin, who had just woken up from a nap and was in her bed, her left arm in a cast, eating a warm soup with the only hand she could use until her clavicle healed-up. He had told her all that Wardle and Vanessa had told him, and now they talked.

“So guess who are those kids' new parents,” Strike said, looking warmly at Robin as he drank a big mug of tea.

“Uhm...” Robin looked clueless. “Cut me some slack, the drugs still have me all drowsy,” she declared with a half-smile.

“Nick and Ilsa,” Strike announced happily. “While you were having surgery I called them, then accompanied social services to Wandsworth to see them get the kids, and Ilsa hadn't stopped crying by the time I left. They sent me all their love for you, by the way.”

“Oh my!” Robin grinned. “One good thing.”

“Yeah... and I think they'll be all right. The little girl was crying, but when she saw Ilsa, she hugged her tight and she seemed to feel okay, she stopped crying. Nick made her dinner and told her a bed time story, and the kid fell asleep in his arms.”

“Beautiful! Can't wait to meet their new family,” Robin said looking more cheerful than she had all night.

“I also visited Mrs Baggins. She was heartbroken, but when I told her her son took three kidnappers with him, she was so proud, and she was happy to know he died in your company, that he wasn't alone and that it was a fast thing, without all the suffering the others probably went through. She was also happy everyone else had come back to the squats. She told me you should visit her someday, that she's deeply grateful to you, and that she'll pray for a fast recovery.”

“Bless her,” said Robin, and left the rest of her soup on the bedside table. She was tired, and not too hungry anymore. It was a bitter-sweet victory.

“You were impressive. They're considering you for a decoration for civilian merit. The way you described your path just by what you felt in the boot, the way you gave us so many details from there, and inside the unit... we couldn't have done this without you, Robin. You were outstanding, courageous, smart, and wickedly talented,” Strike said sincerely. “Zoe, who's quite the hardcore cop, was very impressed with you. Asked me thrice if you'd switch bosses.”

Robin half smiled, and leaned back against her pillows. Then she looked serious again.

“You know...” she said after a while. “There was a moment, when Joshua and I were taken, in which I thought I was going to die, and my only goal was to take as many as them with me as possible. Then something funny happened. As I accepted my death, I wasn't afraid of it anymore, and I could... I think I fought more intensely. Without fear holding me back.”

He nodded slowly.

“It happens. When you survive terrible things, you start feeling anything else that could happen is nothing in comparison, and you're less afraid to fight. You hadn't survived this yet back there, but maybe mentally, you had, 'cause you were there under your own free will. You knew you had the power to decide to be there, and to end it. You were in control.”

“I guess so. And I remember thinking... what a stupid thing, fear. It can save our lives, yes, but it can also keep us away from so many incredible things. So I decided... I decided if I made it out of that, I'd try not to let fear rule in stupid things. It's fine if it keeps you from dying, but not if it keeps you from being loved or loving.”

Strike frowned lightly.

“You lost me there, Robin.”

She chuckled and shook her head.

“I love you too, silly,” Robin admitted. His eyes widened and he looked at her, shocked.

“But in the beach...”

“I know what I said at the beach, but I was just afraid, Cormoran. I have such terrible experiences with men, I just thought I'd date you, and things would go downhill, and then I'd lose the person I care for the most in the world, and I panicked and did what I did,” she explained, reaching her hand to caress his. “I hated it, but I thought it was the only way of keeping you around.”

He immediately grinned, his eyes brightening with excitement.

“Robin, you said 'too', but I never said I loved you.”

“Oh but you do. I know you love me,” she smiled, and Strike grinned bigger.

“You're right, you're just so smart. I love you.”

And not needing any more words, he kissed her passionately.

They both knew the start of their romantic relationship would be plagued with the difficulties of the trauma they had both endured in the past few weeks, but they knew that this time they'd have each other, and that, made them invincible.

  
  


The END


End file.
